her touch – always a procession of feelings that won’t leave her heart, of everything she doesn’t have or even want words for.
i hold back her hand and it all quiets down- the waves, the death, the crashing planes, and the flying roofs. the cities in her mind grow silent. they- the tiny inhabitants, the ugly parasites in her heart, they look at me as if i am an enemy, and yet smile at me, as if i am one of them.
they wait for her to smile at this, which she does. she tells me she is fine. in the same tone in which i use to tell her the same lie. she leans in and touches my cheeks. now it is my turn to go silent. now my cities and their helpless monsters wait to see where she leads this madness to.
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.
“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.
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully to the edge of the table, where your glass stands. At the edge where you place your suitcase, where you always tie your laces once again just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love when you think I might lend something of me to keep such place alive, to keep you warm while you keep the door open like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky, when your new birds keep singing songs of ‘soulmates’ with better specification when it becomes your new caller tune, when you think of the best version of your life. You think of that too often, quite loudly for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.” “i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“ “call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“ “call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“ “call me. meet me. i want us to end.“ “you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“ “you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself. i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything that I dangerously left at the edges just to be your equal, just to make sense of you- I am glad I have claimed back my madness instead of trying to understand yours. I am glad I do not have to live my life compensating for your weakness, calling it love.
there are mornings when i have forgotten how to forget. i open my eyes only believing the dream just broken. there are mornings when i hate myself for waking up and my body for needing reality so much.
“i cannot give my heart to you”, i remind myself to say this as i gulp down a glass of chocolate milk, in case someone decides to fall in love with me today. it is unfortunate that i have to force myself to say these words, when it is so much easier to utter “yes”, especially when i have hunger only for love.
as i untangle my earphones i almost step into another puddle of my previous life. there is something odd about finding my tears again. i stand there, wanting to be of comfort to myself but the one who is still drowning, drowning for years i do not want her, i do not want to catch her disease of hope.
there are days like these, when taking a step forward is the most cruel thing to do. when being human is risky, is the first step towards defeat. when healing comes with a downtime, time that I must answer for.
on days like these i find myself losing my sight, and it is in that darkness that I find you. how lucky you are that you will stay like this stay beautiful, stay mine only here, only in my moments of madness and helplessness.
P.S. i am always amazed at how easy it is to give up on myself that to give up on you.even when you were the worst of us.
Slowly I hear
a flood, a riot, a madness of people
rushing towards me.
Their voices turning from
to name calling.
Their anger pulling triggers
real and imaginary.
I hear a silence in the world
that looks at me
and tell me a list of things I did wrong
to deserve this.
They look for a reason to forget the existence
of people like me
whose broken pieces remind them
of their own cruelty.
And soon they run to another direction
finding someone to bully.
But many a times, one of them looks back,
helps me get back on my feet.
And now I do not know
how to hate them.
I fear my hate will make me one of them.
You ask why I don’t stay and fight.
You ask if I realise that
I can win as much as others.
I tell you that everyone has a dream.
And what I get by staying and fighting,
are not my dream.
That I cannot live in this world
of regulated self-expression.
Always fearing when I would spill out of the lines.
So even if my broken is not as shabby and scattered.
Even if my madness is not the sort
that can get admiration.
Even if my hands struggle with holding myself where I am.
Just know that I leave,
not because of aversion to this world,
nor to find a better place.
I leave cause I cannot breathe in water
even if I want to.