the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart. they see through you. even when they say hello they almost get your name wrong, you can tell it from the look in their eyes. they drink and fill every room with songs that were not so hard to bear when they were just noises that radio made. they tell you in their drunken stupor that no one cares.
they say no one cares even when you call the cab, drag them home, hurt your hand in the struggle, scrape more than skin, lose more than patience, leave them on a bed not made for weeks probably, you don’t want to guess or know. so you close the door, climb down the stairs shut down the part of mind reserved for them, but remember how they have been liking and sharing too many dark poems, how those poems speak in their voice in your mind. so you climb back, remove every blade and knife and realize it is just the beginning. you feel exhausted by the inexhaustible list of things that can help end a life, that can serve as a full stop.
so you sleep on the couch or pretend to, till your head hurts from pretending. now that you want something true you call your love and tell him that you don’t know how to handle this, how to sleep and yet keep an eye on the one whom you suspect is waiting, waiting for you to close your eyes for a second to make an exit that doesn’t exist. he tells you that they are beyond hope at the same time he forwards articles that could give you hope. he tells you to sleep tight knowing you won’t.
when you wake up at the sound of tears being microwaved for breakfast, you see another day that won’t be right. you see them trying not to break yet breaking and abandoning everything around them so that their hurt can be felt by the world. they look at you and smile while they pour another glass toasting “another drink for the world that doesn’t care, another drink for the loveless me.”
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart.
I row my heart to the moon you drew, the one you colored in green ignoring every reality, for which you got an D, for which I lost a part of me.
I no longer hold onto the poems filled with dread- dread of rejection, of future, of finding myself eventually broken. I see something that you have left behind in me. Something that still burns, still lives for a reason. Something that is much more than an art class with disappointed teacher. Something that helped me hug back the blue parts of me.
I row my heart to the moon you drew, to the world I traced with my own brave hands.
what is the use of loving you if you won’t speak less and be less for the sake of my ego, if you don’t have the proportions or face to brag about, if you won’t sleep with me, if you have “anxiety attacks” just when i am having fun (it is embarrassing, grow up) if my mom won’t like you, if you can’t give me the kids that i want, if a career, a dream is still on your mind, if you still want friends when you already have me, if you want to write the stupid poems that make me look bad, if you won’t consider me your god, if you continue to live for yourself.
so dear, work hard. work hard or you will become useless to me. there is only so much that i can tolerate for this love of yours.
I wanted to write something about you, before I start forgetting- who you were, who i was with you, how we lived, and how we learned how to not live, how we felt the extremes of helplessness, with each other.
But I do not want to be the only voice actor in this otherwise silent movie. I could never read your lips. I never moved mine. But it should have been enough. You convinced me that I would be enough for you.
But as I suspected you knew too little of yourself. As I knew, my love also had limitations. We hated what we saw in each other. So you covered your eyes with anger, I covered mine with fear. And all we did for years is to sing to each other about the loneliness that we had gifted each other.
If only we could give up on ourselves earlier, we may not have suffered so bad, we might not have hated each other so much.
I wish what we had was something shallow. But it was not, our wounds are proof of that.
Lets just say that we would live on just fine and try to believe in that as long as we can.
My mind that understands is chained and crippled by its understanding. It only tries to understand new words by comparing it to what has already written or read. It only understands feelings in terms of the pain it has given or all it has suffered.
So when I stand in front of the doors of a poem feeling the sting of December winds on my back. When I ring the doorbell and hear from other side “May I come inside?” I immediately know that this not something that I understand, that there is a difference in reading as if sitting on the couch in a stranger’s house waiting to be entertained and reading as if I have let the stranger in my own mind and allowed him to change the view I have of this world.
Some poems are not just poems.
They are voices that never die
because they have never been born.
They are ghosts that we have always wanted to haunt.
They are names we give to our own suffering,
a closure that only we can give to ourselves.
I am writing this poem because for an hour my mind is butchering every beautiful thing in the world to get that one line that can finish the thirst of this page. And nothing beautiful remains beautiful when such desperate hands hack at it, cut it into grotesque chunks and then fail terribly when trying to stuff them into these mascots figures, these alphabets. I call this a poem because I can call it nothing else. I call this a poem because years ago a naive me reached the conclusion that the only way a moment can live on, a feeling can be recorded, without the burden of the reason of its existence is if it becomes a poem and because the current me doesn’t know how to deal with myself, the current me knows nothing but to write, and has nothing of substance that moves it’s heart. And I fear myself for the ease with which I refer to myself as ‘it’, only because I became useless for few minutes. I end up documenting my fear of becoming empty, of becoming blind, and calling it a poem. I end up felling helpless in newer ways and I am forced to call it a new beginning because giving every sorrow a beautiful name is all that I capable of.
On evenings such as these when the all the withered flowers of my heart have regained the life that once left them, when I have known what is it to die, when I have known how rare it is to find a road back to life when I have known the pain of losing, I feel even now I can try once more. I can try to hold your hand. I can try, I can stand at the edge once again because even though you are not mine yet, but the thought of days without you seems grayer and sadder than all that I have suffered. No, I won’t die. It won’t pain even if you don’t end up with me. But the possibility of a life with you has made me a bit more greedy. I have started expecting a bit more from life and you are the only difference between between my now and my dream.
On evenings such as these when the soil of my heart have been dug too deep, have seen the seasons of happiness that never stays, when it has known how tiring life can be and finding my way back once doesn’t mean I won’t be lost again. Though the memories of your smiles are as fresh as the ones of filled with your resentment. I find my heart filled with nothing but you. I am where I once was and I want to stay here forever always in love with you. Praying for one more day with you. Praying to always be the one who gets your love. Even when you are here, even when you are mine I want you more, a little bit more of you.
These four walls that cuts us off from the world puts me again in that same position that I dread. My weakness that I once thought I had cast away is holding onto my fingers again. If only the world had not abandoned me here with you. I could have found some comfort in its words- “you are worth better” or “you are happier alone“, then I could avoid this hurt that has already risen in me.
As usual you look out of the window. You have always been good at ignoring my presence and my feelings. I have always envied you for being like this, for being able to stand your ground, being sure of hatred and not looking back at what didn’t work out. But not me. I believe too much in second chances- the second chances that I never got. I am again that person who is thinking up of words to say to make you stay, trying to find a promise that I have not uttered yet that will make you realize that I cannot be replaced in your heart.
But there are days that you have let me down
and days where I have not been enough for you-
the memory of which all my tears have not been able to wash away.
So I collect my belongings and myself
to get out of this painful isolation with you,
this fruitless attempt of our hopeful friends
who wish to see us happy and together again.
I no longer believe love
to be an effort of one person
to latch onto the other who wants to leave
who always has a better plan
and a better person in mind to move toward.
I no longer have the heart to love you anymore.