The skin of the prophets and lovers hangs with the fresh laundry. The dices and glasses lie forgotten in the broken and mutated stomachs of our pet fishes. A pot of porridge sits on the blue counter. The potatoes, the rice, the marbled peas grow soil, grow eyes, grow tongue, grow memories that never were. The imitations of porcelain crack under the weight of life. It never used to be like that.
Life used to be small and delicate and beautifully framed within the carefully drawn floral boundaries of plates, within the pools of small spoons. Life is no longer like that. Now the book of tales burn with the missing ladles and fake money of games no one knows how to play. Every piece of wood, every piece of our soul, anything that burns, only burns only what we love. Only what we love gets to die here.
Shouldn’t that put me at ease? That something gets to escape this world. But all that dying, the small pieces scraped off again and again. Isn’t that how we got to this- this place where even pain is dull, where even the hopelessness doesn’t come with a heartbreak.
Ice floats and ships sink but the absolutes end here. For this red sun, that seems to sink together with us all, is just playing a kind game. It is will be fine. Just fine. It will pretend to die just for our sake. Just like how it pretends to be born so that we don’t feel alone.
It doesn’t know yet, that we feel lonely in spite of that. That there are things in life that can make us forget, that can cancel the sunshine and the storms. There are soft things that gets trodden upon, there is a kindness that we can’t value as humans because it doesn’t come from the one we want. There are things with weight and never leave our heart- Like love, like death, like subjective harshness of this world. Like the unnamed thing eating our dreams, Like the unmanned vehicle of luck running over us- leaving us alive everytime. The friend who forgets us so often that we believe that we are ghosts, the rain of care that we try to predict in the eyes of cold lover, the floating bodies that we can’t recognize. But we cry and in our tears we feel the remains of the memory that we can’t access. we only feel we must cry or we will regret.
So dear sun forgive us if we don’t return your smile as we thrash around breathless in water, as we demand answers in a voice weathered by tears. Forgive us if we forget that unlike us you will probably die alone. Things get forgotten important things like you and the other members of your life-filled-lifeless club. That’s just how we are but we realize it sooner or later what they were.
I can recall the days when i knew you tried to save me. You almost succeeded. You were beautiful even when my life was not. But even that helps. Thank you. We may not say it that much, but we have written a lot about you in the papers you’ll never read. I hope when you die the papers that are filled with your beauty can burn to give you a few more breaths. I hope it helps even though it won’t.
Across this glass, across the tired melting clouds of mist, on the other side there are trees and homes and forests that are just like places on this side that I rest.
The places where I am not look as sad as all the places I have been. Everywhere, on every road there is always a person who knows a way to break my heart, and I always end up thanking them for it.
There are rooms where I put up lights and posters and curtains and lovers and music, those are the rooms I want to die in- with some beauty, with some consolation of meaning .
But always I find the reason for my end outside these walls. Those reasons live under the brightest light on the darkest road. And because I was told that the light that I don’t know of is the one that saves all, even the hopeless ones like me. So my legs forget how to stop, my hands forget how to let go, and my blood glitters for a moment under the light of lost hopes before it turns black, before it invites in the cold that I always thought belonged to the inanimate world.
I think of the room I won’t reach, and the songs and the faces and this world that I will not be given a piece of, to keep.
As the sky fills me up, pats me down, and tucks me in the snow across the white, I feel someone stir from sleep. The wail that my throat cannot make, finds a home in that other world, in the other me that unlike me knows how to cry and how to be loved for it.
in her two storey house my doll sleeps on her silk sheets with a knife resting beside her. it shines as if newly delivered and never used, as if sharpened hundred times, as if it has known the pain of blood every night, every night cleaned under the deafening noise of running tap water. the metal mixes with her fears, with her trembling hands. something again slips from her grasp. and now it is time for tears, and it will be soon time for cycles of search and paranoia. there is a time for every madness in her mind. there is always a calm wait before she reaches the next stage of hopelessness. there is always a party hosted at the dead end of her lives where she takes another drink, and finds hands filled with warmth and eyes that like the color of her healing skin, the burned tips of her tongue, and her swallowed words equally. but someone utters the wrong word, looks at her the wrong way, leaves the taps water, filled with smell of blood, running in her mind again, and again she lunges for the the knife that fits in her hand better than any hope and again she ends the song of her lover, again she wakes up alone.
The last stranger at the funeral home brought in the worst rain of the season, the coldest wind of the night along with your last letter. He leaned against the window and called up everyone he won’t be able to meet today looking at me all the while. As if he knew every word that I was reading. Probably waiting to see whether I cry at the same lines that he did. His eyes look like the ones who have got used to crying for things that cannot be undone, for a life that cannot be. I wondered if he loved you. Maybe he did. Maybe you knew. I hope you did. He sat beside me trying not to grieve more than a mother, trying not mourn like a lover, making himself invisible with every word i read under my tearful breath
“…even when I sat at the dinner table with my brightest smile and deepest hunger, i couldn’t convince me that i needed to exist here. even the warmest embrace of this world could do nothing but break me. i knew opening my heart could only bring floods and all ends of all kind. i knew all along of this end. forgive me for pretending otherwise….”
Outside my body, outside myself I feel I can be the the girl who walks to a stranger, smiles and asks his name, who keeps her name in her mouth, and doesn’t throw it away along with the chewing gum in the nearest trash can.
Would she hold his hand? I think she would. But even then would she be reminded of the the poem she wrote in seventh grade “the ugliness of people dripping from their hands at nights, holding my breath, crushing my 27 teeth under an unwanted kiss, promising to kill me next time“. Probably not. That poem doesn’t exist in this world, let’s keep reminding ourselves that.
So yes, she holds this stranger a bit more closer than she would have deemed wise if she saw it how I would and she would make promises- the kind lovers makes before they know what love is. He will ask about her life and she will have no sad story to tell. So she would talk about the recent window shopping- the things she can’t have and things she can’t get and she will not be talking in metaphors for once.
For once the one she wants to love wouldn’t be obsessed with the wounds on her skin to love, to treasure, to poke, to mock, to dig down further, to own and to burn. He will probably say something sweet about her smile or maybe something boring about his work and she would smile a bit more in either case. Because she can smile here, in this world, in front of him, without having to think about what his each word might hide, what she is over-looking, what will be the tiny details that will come back to hurt her, what will be the undoing of her heart. She will smile cause she won’t have learned to be hate people beforehand, she wouldn’t have learned to love a bit too late.
She would tell him that he is lovely, and the blush in his cheeks will make her heart skip and she would love him for loving him and not because she is looking for an easy fix to her faltering mind.
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?
We can never move forward, together or alone, if we don’t find the courage in ourselves to look at each other and to say what needs to be said. If we choose silence again we will never know the depth of our blindness or the easy path of love we didn’t take. We will be always walking on the minefield of each other’s words in every lover’s mouth. So tell me I am just a human who just failed at love and I will tell you the same.
“warm” this word has become cold sitting at the base of my throat my throat burns and my everything else? my everything else -my pretty flesh and my ugly insides- who want me to be there and at the same want me gone. i guess they want me to change. this is my new low where my organs are my imaginary friends the only ones Ican talk to, the only ones who need me, the only ones I can disappoint, my new friends who are learning the weariness of living for me. I ask around for a lover who has a love for knives and tolerance for madness of all kinds. I hear a hundred thousand sighs in me when the new replacement of romance appears, asks me my name and digs his sharp canine teeth on the last bits of my happiness as a hello. The hundred folded cranes look more like ravens and the one who promises me an end is now my only hope. Now things are easy now that I can’t hear myself breaking now that I have this strange loud laugh to hide behind, this person stranger than me, taking up the blame of everything I have done, helping me hide from everything that I have killed in my life.