There was a lot of burning that day, I remember. The black skies still cling to the corner of my eyes. But I don’t know fire as intimately as you do. When I flip through your notebooks, I only find essays made of water. The color from my nails seep into the page. They find the most fragile words, the true and weak words, words with a faint crack similar in the shape to the one that adorns your heart. My nails, my cheeks become pale as all my colors flow out of me, as if by some urgent need, to bloom over these words, over you, to aid you in your hiding, to shield you silently.
Even when I have almost found my head, though I have finally lost my madness, the flowers, these red flowers of blood still haven’t withered. This heaven, that has only place for me, hasn’t yet been burnt. There is the earth that is yet to be found. There is a sun that needs to forget the feeling of being drunk on the dark. There are walls that must be washed and washed till they can be painted over with warmth. So wait a bit, I will let you in. I will let my heart love, once I become someone you can love. Once I become someone who can see love as something good.
Have you found a way to leave everything that you call your ground- your ground of anger, of rusting armour of indifference, of the trauma the heartless giants planted in your heart, the compass that shows all the wrong directions and always takes you to the nearest cliff, again and again. Have you found a way to be better, to live better? I haven’t yet.
Yesterday I listened to a stranger talk for hours about how it can be done, how it will end when we want it to. It made me wonder if maybe we are not yet ready for this groundless life. Maybe that is our only issue.
All that can save us is so temporary, so transient. Yet the thing that ruins us, is ours to keep- not like the sun, but like the demon that needs our skin to live. I wonder if we just need to be needed that badly. Is that why we choose to cry than to change? Is that why we choose to hold onto the wave that is drowning us- just because it is here, because it is ours till it kills us. Among many other things I also wonder what made us like this. To be honest I am afraid to know.
There is a kind of happiness that eludes me, a kind of fear that grips me in my sleep, a kiss that makes me fear losing everything I shouldn’t treasure. A person who kills me every second by loving me, by giving up his hollow self to my hungry mouth. A person whose sadness, only sadness is mine. A person who has loved too much, been hurt too much, who now substitutes pity, anger, jealousy, and need in place of true love (what is true love anyway?). I remain awake trying to make this equation work (what is true love anyway?). I weigh my heart against yours and I realize what a waning moon feels like. I collect such new feelings without blaming you (what is true love anyway?). All my treasures are feelings I would accept only by your hands, however cruel and hurtful they may be.
On most days I desperately want to believe that everyone else are humans, just like me.
I write it down in cursive, under the shadow of my incomprehensible muttering- “they are not as bad as they seem. you are not as bad as you think.”
I wrote it again and again knowing I would never believe it anyway.
But I continued to write these lies because I still wanted to make an effort. Because I hated everything I could see, the reality that shouldn’t be, things that needn’t be this bad, this life where lies were the happiest part.
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.
She climbed the stairs never pausing for a second. I knew what a second of thought could do. How it could pull back her steps and let out her screams. I knew this is something she didn’t need.
She climbed the stairs and walked towards me. Beside me, not exactly near, steps away perhaps she stood. And that was enough for me.
Enough for me to not know of loneliness. Enough for me to not feel fear what all I could never be. She stood where I could grow if I chose to, where I could happily fall apart and she would never leave.
But I also knew that meaning of this distance which she hoped I didn’t see. Being her mirror, as I looked at her from this distance, I realized this carefully measured out space- how beautiful and perfect and safe it was. She always stood far enough so her heart wouldn’t rely on me to beat.
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.
The cold that we depended on to hide our hearts didn’t last long. First our warmth, then our fire, then our wild will- one by one they convinced us why we need them, that without them we’ll never actually live. One by one everything we didn’t want to be stood facing us, climbing higher and faster on our ladders out of our hell. I kept repeating my lies and you kept repeating them back and tried to call it love.
“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.