The light bulb blooms. The petals of light, the tungsten burning red and hot- invites, sings, thinks only of the memory of wings. The burning, the bodies and their count, the trivial data, the remains of feeble lives pile up only to be blown away by the night wind. Far way, the plastic chairs rustle like grass, as everyone leaves with their lips stained and bleeding with illusions. In the silence of the backyard, I alone hear the wings drop like rain. I look at my own charred and mauled self and ridiculously, think of love, only of love. I realize something is truly wrong with this world that I’m caught in.
“Does rust affect plastic dreams?” I ask my teacher in my sleep. She takes out an axe and starts cutting down the first mouth filled with wrong answers. Two rows away she wipes her brows and folds her sleeves, she takes another deep breath before she checks the attendance sheet and finds the next dream to kill.
She tells me I should think more and ask more and ask the questions that help me live. She looks at the metal that grows out of my pores and gives me another chance. She says only if I would try to be better than the people I am clinging to, I could grow up to be her. I look away from the blood that flowing down her neck, the parts of her that she intends to kill by holding other’s breath.
“What about my mother’s arms, weak weak exhausted arms? Are those my telling signs? Does that mean I don’t have to worry, that I am just someone next in line? What about you? Do you rust like me? Would the color of my rust, would my weakened heart make me worth protecting, make me deserving of kinder words?
She told me “It will not get you respect or equality, if that’s what you are looking for. It can sure get you love, of some kind, for some time but it is just a matter of time before you see the end that only you can write. And you would end up writing it cause that painful end would be more truer and more yours than any love that you find by compromise.”
As she walks past me, smiling lovingly, as she spares my life, that now she owns. As she dissolves my only way back, I realize too late, that my chaos and my doubts were more hopeful than an answer like this that promises pain to everyone else but me.
Their torn ends, their disappearing body, the plastic wings at the corner of the shallow pockets (that were actually good for nothing) now look like a teardrop determined to stand till the very end. Isn’t it all so ridiculous, laughable, and sad? The blue that never dies – doesn’t it fill you with anger at the unfair paces each component of this world moves? The half alive part of everything cursing the other broken half for taking them down as well. Isn’t it a bit too noisy here to miss or accept anything?
(Or am I the only one?)
All the treasures are now at the pawn shops, and the bottom shelves of the rooms and houses, countries, and identities abandoned, in the words that belong to pseudo names and ‘anonymous’, in the trash cans of people who swear never to love you again. They lie deleted and dumped under the bridges whose shadow rubs your back as you try to vomit out the leftover love eating your heart.
While everything to be thrown away is always there in the cupboard, in the handbags, on the sofa, in your phone talking up extra space, waiting for you to forget them, get fed up of them, waiting for you to throw them away, so that they can haunt you, so they can be your another true love. Till they are your sole teardrop when it all ends.
She said “The moment I glace at the empty parking space in the sky, I wait for you to appear with the plastic wings and your boyish grin.”
The sky does that to me too. I look at the drooping branch the sky holds in its mouth, I wait for you to tear your most beautiful dress at the knees, your tiny tiara clutched in your hands, taking that unsuccessful flight again, leaving behind all the burdensome part of your being just to tell me the precious secret of your heart. Just to fall into me, to take me away, to fill me with life, to fall and bruise with me, to make me yours. As I fail to catch you again, as you pretend to die over me trying to hold in your laughter, I couldn’t help but smile. I couldn’t help but want you to be the only weight that I carry in my heart.
With my back to the my cold family name the metallic alphabets printing hard on my clothes, I stand with my feet half out of my pretty shoes – with my painted nails still hidden in the skin of another animal, my hands revolving the beautiful replica of Saturn around the plastic heart on my elaborate key chain- a stage of its own. I stand and wait for you to open your door on the floor above. I hear a faint click, a phone ring, footsteps running away from the world (why do I feel such sadness when I hear that?), a door left open (to everyone but me) I sit in the middle of my living room floor staring up, at the underside- the creeping mold of the stage where I played your lover, your nemesis. It is cruel and incomprehensible that we can still live, take calls, make jokes, eat, and still have the want to live. After hurting ourselves and the world for the sake of love, after all that, is this is it? When you find your room, your world without me which direction does your heart turn towards? Do forget from time to time that we are supposed to forget each other? When I find my loneliness becoming greater than me, when it starts spilling out of me on dinner table, when it makes me lose my mind, am I allowed to let go of you? Is this what this distance, this decision means? I hear your window open, I hear your excited voice (why do I feel color of anger filling me again?). I wonder if you have really found your new life or is this an act you have put for my benefit? Your kindness could only be in my head, as was your love. TV drowns your voice again and I thank all the accidents, all the things out of my control, everything that moves us away from each other. Otherwise, I never could.