Another day flashes across my sky. Another moon rushes past my life. There are clouds that I have learned to walk on. There are days when I forget how afraid I am of this world. This is what my miracle looks like.
There are songs that never meant anything till you sang them for me. As I play hide and seek with your smile, I am forgetting the reasons to hate myself. I am forgetting things that I never allowed myself to forget. This is what my miracle looks like.
I dream of a one room castle. I find the idea of falling in love with this world something worth looking forward to, something worth a try. I find the courage to want the impossible. I find it easy to put my heart outside my body, in this world. Nothing breaks, nothing withers. Finally, my heart grows old with me. This is the miracle that walked into my life holding your hands.
those who spent their lives wrecking their hands to mould me into something better, tried fruitlessly to break me without pain, to break me and make me into something that would be accepted by this world. they showered me with love so i won’t know, won’t remember how much it pained me or how much it hurt them to have gifted me this painful self-critical view of myself and this world.
while they are growing old, weak and distant my love for them looks like a failed seed that never grew nor flowered. the years that i spent with them has made me ungrateful. i have become the fish that never thanked the water that kept it alive, thinking that is what water is meant to do.
with time as a fail to become what i thought i am, as i realize that doing or even knowing the right thing to do becomes more impossible as you get to know this world, i begin to understand the enormous love they must have had for me to hold my hand and walk with me in a world that they had never seen only for my sake, knowing that their courage and their tears are destined to be forgotten (or worse- questioned).
and my love? my love, it grows in opposite direction of sun, my love for them grows into the soil my heart in a world where they won’t see and won’t know. i will remain cruel and indifferent even in my own eyes. so i hide my muddled feelings and walk around those who have made me what i am whatever that may be.
hello? can you help me? can you tell me which way to go, which part of me to burn to reach the dumping ground where lay all the skins that humans have ever shed?
i have been living in my dreams for quite some time, where i am the old-me surrounded by my old-family, old-friends, old-strangers.
dreams that i can no longer have, now that i have been led back to reality, now that i am almost sane. i realize i am missing the life that never was. medicated consciousness is not enough to make me forget all that i should not remember.
i have heard that here i would find the lifeless skin of mine- the ‘me’ who never knew what lacking is. want to join me? never mind. i was not looking for company anyway. thank you for not helping, for telling me to grow up. thank you for making reality more disturbing than it already is for me.
my sad winter sunshine i am here for you. we can stay sad for however long you want. don’t worry, i don’t remember the happy you. i am not hanging around to see your other face. i have no affection for what you are trying to become again.
i loved rain once. now snowfall is my new thing, you are my new thing- my old love in a new skin. the sky is endless, the time infinite we have long way to go before we become anything permanent.
beauty may be only skin deep but lack of it goes deeper than that. so deep that you end up learning to want things that you wouldn’t otherwise even think about. i wish i could remember every face that was surprised to know that i am okay with looking older than i am, surprised that i do not want to exorcise fats especially when i have got so much of it. every morning i wake up they hover over me like faceless shadows with black markers, drawing over my body showing me all that is wrong, giving me tips so that i can become easy to look at, hiding their superficiality under the wraps of concern, whispering how thick-skinned i am when i don’t listen and wondering what is wrong with the ones who love me. it made me wonder that maybe going under the knife wouldn’t be as bad as being smeared black by markers. that maybe i am supposed to love myself only after the world approves of the ‘me’ that i want to love. i would have understood if they cared, if they actually meant good, but they don’t because they know nothing more than my name and they say my name only with heart-breaking adjectives and assumptions. i want to say they are wrong, but i have suffered their gaze for so long that sometimes i end up sharing their hatred of me, of what they see. there are days that i obsess over a passing comment. there are days i beat up myself for being like this. i starve and fail, i try to get over their words and fail, i try to hate myself and fail. i want to say it doesn’t matter but it does because i am tiring myself out by trying to see something good in me, by apologizing to myself, by trying to save my heart while they burn my body in the woods.
Sit here and cry your eyes out. I know you don’t want to look weak, that you don’t want my strength to be the only things that keeps you standing. But if only you would cry, if only you would let your weakness show, I could find in myself the courage to let you see my tears as well.
This love of mine, it is not much I know. It cannot do anything. It cannot stop you from closing your eyes on me. It cannot do anything but suffer thinking of the day you heart will forget to beat. It terrifies me, to think you are already half gone, that I will get to see the years that you won’t.
I want to tell you that I love you. I want to hear back the same words, I guess. But these words, they refuse to come out of me. I only want to remember the moments when you said you hated me. I want to believe that even in this pain your heart will be lighter by leaving me behind.
the lights rush past us the river drowns our image this air that i can’t breathe this life you can’t live your hand that i can’t leave all make me cry how did i turn out to be this pitiful?
Sometimes the hatred, the bias that
people around him smoked
sticks to his clothes, his skin, his tongue
when I come near him.
He can wash it from himself with a sleep.
He can leave it at the door, when he steps in.
But I can’t wash it out of my mind.
In my mind
I mix up the person he is and the person he has to be.
But I realise that I do not know the person he is,
I only know the person he has to be for me,
I only resent the person he has to be for others.
The person he is, looks at me from his corner of eyes
and this stranger looks at me
not across oceans, not across roads of fate,
but across the versions of us filling up the space between us,
the versions we can never throw away.
This stranger looks at me and gives me the smile
that he has to wear for me.
For me to realise the love I have for the the days
I share with this person who spends his days with me,
loses his ways with me and grows old with me.
I smile back becoming the person I have to be for him,
becoming the version I love the most.
Yesterday, a line etched on my hands
slipped away from the skin that once held it so dearly
and still I lived on as if the the fate I lived now
was the one I was destined for.
I like to call it yesterday
for it is easy to suppose that we always knew what was coming,
that the things we lost didn’t entirely go unnoticed.
When in fact most days we wake up remembering
details about things that have gone to places
where they no longer have to care whether they are still forgotten
by people like us who do such a poor job of caring for anything.
We are always too young to know or too old to bother.
All that find a way to us through this forest of sadness
are disappointed to see what we are
and try best to stay, to lurk around, to be of some use to us,
till we drop them from our mind,
and they stare us in face and try to digest the excuses
that we didn’t even care to give.