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.
It is not the night that brings in the monsters. They are just creatures, just nature- that exist outside the door that you are guarding.
They come in because this world is theirs as well. They come in because they can, just like how you can go out. This is the fair deal you don’t want to exist.
At least they do not look for you, they do not mark your picture and throw darts at it. I love them for that, for the lack of vicious premeditation, the lack of fun in their delivery of hurt.
The river of pills that flows into my window has nothing to do with them. The hurt that keeps you awake, the nails that slowly make marks on the surface of your eyes
this ruined place, this brokenness are always the gifts of the ones who look like us. This has nothing to do with the monsters. This has nothing to do with nights.
But has knowing such things ever helped. The days are just as frightful as nights. Now anything that looks like me, and everything that doesn’t – they are possible ends of me.
Now I must either run away from everything or must end up loving them all, forgiving them all – this broken temple of knowledge, this fake shallow sacred unions, these glorious wretched feelings that won’t let me remain me. How far should I run. How foolishly should I love. How do I decide.
Another chance to get our high from the powdered dust of dreams, from digging desperately, getting closer to the voice of the demons we buried just yesterday, breaking nails and curfews to save the skins we can’t live without.
Another chance at making a home, choosing colors for our ceilings, choosing the sides we will sleep on, choosing not to be the ones we have always been. Another chance, another precious child to be broken, another angel dress to be painted red waiting for our hands, for our tasteless kiss. Choosing everything that leads us to lives that couldn’t possibly have been ours, couldn’t have been so wrong.
I know we are the only ones who can give each other chances. Chances – that we are so fond of. But do we need to call it love?
Though we have tried and tried and have run out of things that can be fixed. Do we have to call this happiness just because we have been told we must?
Do we have to ruin every word, every feeling that we have not felt yet, just because we fear we may never feel them otherwise.