Slowly I plucked each tooth of mine, I tore my tongue out and he called me beautiful.
He called me beautiful so I left my clothes roll down. I let my skin, my guards, my skeleton touch his floor. I sat there watching him build a fire out of it all. The fire was too cold for me so I didn’t smile.
He told me he only speaks the language of rough, that his heart beats and falls slower than the rest. I told him I have known many like him. I told him I didn’t mind. He seemed to mind that a bit but he also seemed to be a bit relieved.
As I sat under the the waterfall of his blue curtains, I felt thousands of eyes at my back, behind windows that couldn’t be closed. There were always windows behind my back anywhere I sat from the day I was first told that I was the type of beautiful not worth keeping and staying around.
Those eyes filled with lust, question, resentment filled with hatred, filled with violence, filled with sweet words for my ailing heart, filled with knives for soft skin, for the right time, were my burden so I knew at least this was not his fault.
I asked him what he could give, what he could make me forget. He didn’t answer and seemed a bit lost. I wondered if he also couldn’t think or speak clearly, if there were eyes on his back that he never spoke about.
As I swim towards the shore of morning, I think of you sometimes. Sometimes I think of you without malice or hatred or blame. Only sometimes. Sometimes I am able to separate your existence from my pain. I guess, you are no longer my wound or weakness or love.
So as I swim back to the shores that for once are there within my reach, I can look back at you and smile, wanting nothing in return. That is happiest end I can give you.
a blue cloudy sky over a banana plantation. the only word to be heard – rebellion. someone is crying far away. another round of bullets leave the shaking hands of the one who can’t seem to stop crying. now he must die just like me. he rests his bloody head and its murky thoughts on me. in this last afternoon of my life i drift into bouts of darkness, without fear for first time, with the company of only his confused memories. will this be my last dream – his life? even in his head my homeland and its afternoons are beautiful. he has a face that he doesn’t want to forget, he has childhood home he can always return to but he didn’t, he regrets it now. he remembers the red color that his sister stopped wearing on her lips once her heart was broken badly. how he kept it with himself, as a symbol of happiness that he can’t have only for himself. there are ports on rainy days and buildings that became sadder at night. he once painted the window that would never open to him or anyone else for that matter. he cried when another nameless woman was found lifeless on the last page corner of newspaper and the window never lighted anymore. there is a cafe filled with few bombs that didn’t go off where the only one spared was him. he doesn’t want to be spared anymore. i wonder if he thinks that he can have happiness when he ends. i wonder if i will be able to smile on a rainy day, even if i am born again.
today is the birthday of one another oddity of mine. on a day like this, few calendars ago i learnt how to turn my helplessness into my charm. i learnt to fill the glasses, the throats of everyone i know with something sweet, with a taste they can’t name. i learnt to become something that can’t be known or hurt. in my bedroom i sit at the foot of my bed trying to block out the presence, the weight of the other half of my body clinging, clawing, crying, dissociating. i again forget where i am. i again forget how to stop shaking. if i walk a bit more into the darkness i feel i won’t have to pretend to be the one who has a say in what happens to her. a hand slips into mine. sometimes it rests on my waist, and i force myself not to feel nauseated. love him. love her. i tell myself repeatedly. love. love. love. love till i can make up for all my lacks. my love is my penance, my apology to anyone who chooses me as their destiny.
From my empty room, from the edge of my personal cliff, I looked into the windows of strangers, looked over their shoulder at texts they write, looked at the pages where their bookmark rests, silently waited at the edge of my chair trying to overhear responses to the big questions.
And all I have known by prying so hard is that there is nothing there. Nothing in the text that could pass for shorthand. The same book rests on the same table for years, serving only the role of a carefully thought out accessory. No question is big enough to be carefully considered. No relationship is important enough to be held to heart. That I was foolish to believe otherwise till now. That I am putting myself on another path to heartbreak if I do not believe in the night that I see. I must unlearn the way I have lived to find a place to belong.
In between the cold beginning and cruel ends that are the parentheses of our lives, there is nothing for me to hang on to. But it helps to know that there are plenty of empty rooms in this painful smaller eternity, that I need not kill myself over an emptiness so common. And it is really difficult to feel alone once I know that.
strangely even there, even on the canvas of my imagination where I get to act the god, even in that world where you are nothing but my creation, even there I can’t imagine a happier end for us.
because i can edit our photos on the cities we never got to visit and i can write you some words, give you some hints on how to make me want you want you back. but even when your puppet hugs mine back i know it’s only me, my hands, my heart, my body, my hopes hanging onto something that would never be you.
“so let it go“, i tell myself. “let’s stop calling every ache by the name of love. let’s put our ego to rest.“
All objects that I possess have stopped doing what they were meant to do. The window doesn’t bring me new air. The bed doesn’t give me rest. The glass filled with water and handful of pills promise me disconnection from reality, sleep, or even death but never the rest that I so want. The words on my books run around on pages, hating my gaze. The music breaks itself into disjointed string on noises.
It is as if one night while I lay trying to forget you, they voted and decided to forget me unanimously. They agreed and concluded that if someone must be forgotten it is me. So now they rebel, they serve only purpose- to remind me of all I lost simply by losing you.
Now the dark corners
are the only safe place remaining.
The loveless days
are the only memory where we can rest
where we can hide from
all the passion that we wished for,
all the feelings we couldn’t handle.
You once wrote to me about the night
that hung as a curtain over your window,
about how you can’t gather the courage to see the light
until I came along and tore away those curtains,
broke your shields
so that you could see what lay beyond.
I once took pride in being the one
who destroyed all dark cells within you.
But I realized too late that you were a flower
who could only bloom in dark,
that shields exist for a reason,
that each step you took towards your fear
thinking it would bring you closer to me
was just the beginning of sacrifices
you made to stay in my world.
As I lay beside you
trying to undo my harm
trying to teach you how to forget me,
what I regret most is that
when you struggled with what you are
I was only proud of my love that could make you do all that
instead of being seeing your love
that could do what I couldn’t.
you are comfortable in your misery
to the point
that it doesn’t seem like fate
and your hands can have rest
only if you think
you will choose this fate again.
But I also know the these resting hands
and this blinded mind are not you
and till you do not become what you are
you will always have this restlessness
that I have known all my life.
I would rather see you struggle and cry
because of the fate that doesn’t give in,
than to see you resigned and lifeless,
holding everything that you don’t want
believing that you would eventually
learn to want them.