Her floor had always been the color of the season I remember this, only when I step into the mess of her life. The spring issues lay scattered like the flowers The pink, red, yellows, and greens, women who only know youth, women who only grow younger the kind of woman she wanted to be (what a small impossible dream) and she almost is. And now that she can never change would she be happy? When/if she comes across her own lifeless eyes in the missing posters would she be glad to be one of the “sad popular”? I shatter the home of her missing goldfish in my haste efforts to pick them up and put them out of sight- the bundles of glossy paper that my eyes can’t handle. I try to put them away, wanting to throw them away now that she wouldn’t mind, now that she won’t yell at me or anyone for taking away too much of her. I want to try it. i want to try, so she has no option but to stop me. “let’s leave her in peace” tells me my moral compass and my grief. “i don’t want to show her the kind of respect that only dead deserve” shouts back my anger and my love. I drop the heaviest bag in this world on her rain soaked bed. Her last dress, her last chocolate wrapper, her last bus ticket, her last mistake, her last breath everything spilling out, everything ruining the spring that I dreamed for her along with her.
There is something beautiful about people who lose themselves when they lose someone. The layer of sanity that cracks, the heart that lets the past take over- is a feeling I would never understand. And all I do in such weather is wait. Wait for my coping mechanism to kick in, to take the decision away from me, and let me forget the meaning of loss.
I read another funeral in my lines of fate, another goodbye in the text not returned, another scene with poor lighting standing where I would be least hurt, saying words I do not mean, words that go well with my rock heart- staying true to my widely advertised image.
But I am not unfamiliar with wet cheeks and sleep that follows. I have cried for minor cuts and burning bruises, at the wrong weather, at the curbs on my freedom, in the argument that felt like a arrow I can’t take out. I have cried a bit more, a lot more than these small disruptions in life deserve.
I wonder if they would have broken me, would have shaken me like this if all whom I have lost were beside me. If everyone who hid their farewell in their lemon scented “love you” cards could stick by a little more, would I have cared for or cried for the rains that won’t stop?
As I scatter in wind the feelings that I dare not keep. I feel a soft kiss of understanding asking me to stop. If only I could.
You ask why I don’t stay and fight.
You ask if I realise that
I can win as much as others.
I tell you that everyone has a dream.
And what I get by staying and fighting,
are not my dream.
That I cannot live in this world
of regulated self-expression.
Always fearing when I would spill out of the lines.
So even if my broken is not as shabby and scattered.
Even if my madness is not the sort
that can get admiration.
Even if my hands struggle with holding myself where I am.
Just know that I leave,
not because of aversion to this world,
nor to find a better place.
I leave cause I cannot breathe in water
even if I want to.