I find myself amidst the flowers that continue to bloom even without her. I find myself smiling, blooming, even dreaming, . trying to hold a bit more life in my hands in spite of the holes that are now three-fourth of my identity, that won’t let me keep anything. As I continue to pass through everything everything I run towards I think maybe this is the only correct for me to live, this is probably the only fate I could accept anyway.
the one thing i can’t be is honest. though there are many other adjectives that stare at me from their balconies at midnight as i walk and crawl through the dirt road, through the pool of lights, crying and shouting and breaking dreams in every home that i pass by. i hear them shaking their heads with disapproval and hopelessness. i look at their hazy shadows and try to hate them in equal measures but i don’t because they are so easy to forget. but this honesty, this honesty that people expect vexes me. this expectation makes me want to hide, run, run over their hearts all because it is so simple. all because the ones who ask me of this through their tears are not mere observers but are the ones struggling to stay close to me fighting the unnecessary sandstorm i create everyday. they are the ones who deserve honesty. they are the ones i don’t deserve. but my dishonesty is not only for this world. it is the only thing i can offer to myself as well. so again, i wake up in their arms with another lie ready on my lips. i hug them with with my true love and my false heart. i don’t try to make it right when they are in shambles again because there is no fancy way to put it, there is no beauty in what i do, there is no promise i would keep. there are only people who i leave. even when i can’t bear to miss one more person again.
Come home and lie that you know how to miss me. Pass me by a thousand time in these small rooms, none which feel like the home I wanted. Once you told me that the issue is that I want a lot of things, that I want too much. That wanting doesn’t suit someone like me. I find the person I am not in everything you like, everything that makes you loose control, everything that forces you to make mistakes. When I cried the first time, you told me that you can’t help that your heart doesn’t say my name. You told me as an assurance that your heart doesn’t know love for anyone else either. I am a person like that, who hoped that you can be mine as long as you are no one else’s. I am person like that, who stayed because no one did and no one would. A person who cries everyday, only to hear your assurances again, only to hear the lies that can save my breaking love for you.
Drop by drop the wax fills the bucket of broken butterflies.
I am falling into another sleep, into another death that is warm, that embraces me like no lover ever has.
I feel the pain in my wings, and unlike other days I try to think that this will never pass. That I will remain like this, with a bit of pain always there in my shoulder blades, under my ribs, aching for a memory that floats above my body, above my existence.
Someone holds my hand and I let them. I was always afraid of living and dying alone. I guess there are many like me.
Years from now they will find us and probably write stories about how we loved each other even in death. As they look at our almost ruined and almost saved faces they won’t know how we died heartbroken, how we held onto each other but never dared to look at each other or ask the names we had started to hate. How our skins melted into each other only because we had nowhere else to be. That even as light broke free from our eyes we didn’t want to look like failure.
the ones we sign our valentine cards to, the ones we tie ourselves to for life wait for us to die (or some form of death) to become free. their heart is full of love – only not for us.
they tiptoe at night to bury their crimes and demand honesty only when it suits what they have in their mind.
so even when we ask, “why did you break me like this when I loved you so?”
they say, “there are no proofs in stories like these, where everyone claims to be wronged. there are no daggers, only words, which are conveniently easy to forget or edit if enough years pass. anyway no one remembers that well, one can always hear things wrong.”
so we go back to sleep, get fine with living blind. tell our self it is fine as long as we are together, when “together” is not what we want.
I find myself more broken that I was before. I find myself praying to every deity who did me wrong, who never cared, praying that they changed their mind, hoping that maybe today they will find me pitiful enough and finally see me as one of their child.
And while they continue to stay silent and cruel and distant, I tell myself that they are doing this for my own good, that all love cannot be the same. But these days I can’t even believe these words that kept me afloat for so long. So now, I have found another lie to tell myself that “everyone suffers like me” and though it is enough to stop me from tearing up but the pain doesn’t pass, and it is no one fault but mine. That I continued to need the love that didn’t need me back.
Even though we know we will end up being disappointed in ourselves we still want find that same mirror again and again, expecting to see something different. Hoping that it will work out one day. Hoping one day our faults would be too insignificant to matter. Relying on the surety of the forgetfulness of the world than the forgiveness that we couldn’t dare to ask.
But even if the world forgets,
even if our skin grows anew,
even if our sins become untraceable,
these eyes of ours
remain the same,
always lingering on the spot
where we have buried our past.
Passing of time does nothing to reduce our fear
of being seen for what we are.
Even when that image of what we were
exists nowhere in this world,
it is the only way we can ever see ourselves.
For someone who speaks so much I mean so little of what I say. I let myself be swayed too easily and too often. I foolishly take my passing feelings and poor judgments as some eternal truth, when they are not.
Today, I may talk of my wait
for this sorrow to leave my life.
Tomorrow, I will claim it as my only friend
from whom I do not wish to be apart.
All those contradicting words
are true and heartfelt
but only for that moment of time.
Tomorrow I may as well wake up and say that
my sorrow is you- my beating heart.
And I won’t be too far from the truth.