“even if i loved it was all in vain and if i couldn’t be loved what good was i anyway“ i utter such atrocities hoping no one takes me seriously yet hoping someone would cry. i can’t tell from here if i have broken anyone yet. there is only blindness where i stand. there is only light where i am allowed to be. the lights stay on me. the shadow of curtains comes down on the momentary truth that hangs at my lips.
i wake up and read about the dream i sold looking for the cracks i made but all i got was “pain looks good on her“. i wonder if i am really that beyond hope. my blood shines and my tears have wings. my brokenness isn’t broken enough. even in my honest moments i only seem make pain more beautiful. to be cared for, to be tended to could it ever happen to me, should i even try. to speak truth as truth i wonder how that feels like.
It takes an eternity. It takes the courage of fighting thousand bloodless wars. It takes the the cruelty of scratching through my own wounded skin, breaking my own ribs that were made to protect the soft things that keeps me alive. It takes stupidity and few seconds for my fingers to reach your lips.
You look up. Your gaze says something that I do not understand. Such beautiful hopes and possible disasters come alive in your face. My fear comes to the surface of my eyes swimming in the black oil glistening and waiting to burn.
so my blue dream is not even mine now. i am just a mesh of people who hate me. their fingers are my fingers now poking my skin, endless railroads of red are built with their nails that they do not even cut before they sell me their fake love-filled eyes. their eyes are my eyes that wants to smash every reflective surface where i fall. every reflective thought is just a poison. a poison, a gossip, an untrue version of me running wild in the minds of those who look at me. they gossip about me so i gossip about myself , whisper my secrets into the air or better, into the ears of lovers who are chosen especially for their talents in indifference, vulnerability, and emotional violence. lovers who can break me – are all that i want. i need someone else to do this breaking for me because i am coward who can’t move towards the end i want, and also because my hands are busy. i have more things to do. i need my hands to tear my talents apart in the name of value, tear my feelings apart in the name of my worthlessness. i need my hands to paint again and again. paint indifferences on my insecurities that come a bit too often to the surface of my skin now, paint laugh lines on the bleeding corners of my lips, paint dreams of love, moments of hurt, grand betrayals on my otherwise lonely mind, paint humans that match the shadows in me, painting causes and assurances. i must paint. i must paint a reason- a reason why i suffer so, why this world works like how it does, why i must break as the world breaks, why i must break even for fixing this world. i must paint a face so that others don’t break at the sight of my face. i clip my nails everyday so that when i become someone’s ghost when someone suffers because of me at least my hands won’t leave them scars.
I washed my face and with the water dripping from my messy bangs onto the dress that I never planned to ruin I stared at the ant on the wall. I listened to the sound of you falling in love again just across the wall.
I held in the meaning of this along with my breath. I blew at the ant wondering if I can be a force to be reckoned with a hurricane for someone else. Maybe not. I felt a sense of camaraderie with the legs of prey today. So maybe not today.
Or maybe never. I feel you would laugh even if I tried to be one. I feel a storm. I always feel it at my back whenever I turn away from you. I wish I could fear for you, worry about you in those moments and not think about the knives that leave your hand always to find me. Though you say you never meant it to be that way.
I fear most – the words of love from your lips, because they are never for me, but always said within my earshot And though you say love is like that for everyone, but do you really fear the same things as me? Do you pray to the gods of bathroom ants for forgetfulness, for survival as if love is force that will always be against you?
The leaves flew back to their trees. The fruits became never eaten, never ripened, never born. The papers on my desk forgot how to exist for themselves. For a moment I feared maybe this is how the past love, the healed hurt returns. But it wasn’t so.
That day, on that bleak morning you looked at me and my heart learned to believe again. My lips reached out to learn your name. Your name, as if out of a dream, settled on my shoulders and told me I can rest.
On that morning, that should have been like the hundred others, I learnt that in spite of my bitterness and my disappointment I wanted to believe in this world. And even in my denial I was waiting for a moment like this.
A moment in which my broken and incomplete heart is returned to its original state of trust, as if by a miracle, by your gentle touch of understanding. I feared calling it love, when I knew that it already was. No other word would suffice.
Now that I have grown in height and I cannot forget my name even if I want to, no one comes looking for me when I go missing.
When I go missing, when I finally succeed in getting lost I buy a new plant, walk through strange streets, come back home with my worn out heels and new pictures on phone, takeouts from restaurants whose name feels weird on my lips, knowing more roads that can take me home.
I sit defeated and happy as I realize getting lost means nothing if I can breathe just fine in this world, if everything here can be my home.
But still there is sadness in me for losing everything that only that small world could hold.
In the age of breaking, all my classmates swarmed to the dead pools in summer. They ironed their skin with the heat I couldn’t bear. With a smudged color on their lips, their never resting pupils, the pamphlets of their anxious laughter that they passed to each other, the crumpled remains they walked upon they looked like imitations of greek statues and love stories gone wrong. They looked like people who joke about drowning and dying and the love that killed them in their sleep. “They are too young to know about love and pain” someone said on TV, even as we built an ugliest everlasting fire out of the promises the world couldn’t keep.
On the tapered ends of my lips when I found your lips nestled near mine, I asked “Is this love? Is this your love?” and you answered “Obviously not.” So I told my heart to grow up. Growing up was the only way not to hurt.
On the spring infested roads, I found your hand on my melting waist.
On a nameless cold rainy day, I found the joy of walking towards you.
On a morning long gone, in my graceless fall into the mess of my mind, I came to knew the strength of your hands.
On the narrow pavements made for one as I walked behind you I realized how impossible it is to forget you.
On all such days that I made a point never to mark on any calendar, on all the days I tried to forget, I found the question again and again “Is this love?” Again I looked away from you to avoid hearing the answer that would hurt a lot more now.
I guess I never grew up or growing up only deepens my heart, only makes it worse.
i remember your hands and their warmth like i remember the versions of me that were easier to live with (or so i think). the colors, their unnatural brightness, the scent of acetone always lingering on the tips of your fingertips, always hiding a sad rainbow (just my type). always a star that you forgot to rub and break, shined on your skin. under my lips, they shined brighter than my world. i swam to them as they stood in a world of darkness in the shapes of you and me. it is so odd that in my constantly breaking and building and growing brain and its images and meaning- everything about you meant love. i loved your flower hairpins and fake bullets and the magazines of the the people you would rather be and the window you glanced out of when didn’t want to look at me and your back against mine. it is odd that i could love you so even when i didn’t know why?