a broken end
with a light
(a lighter duller than me)
says the magic words,
the loathsome words
that make me the old alice.
i am made to leave
the seat, the home,
the dream, the rights
that are too big for me.
they leave me a tiny suitcases
filled with fancy dresses
made of used socks and handkerchiefs.
they are cute,
they are kind,
they have read their fairy tales right.
i have never read the right books,
so i find myself unable to thank them
or kiss their hands.
thumblina says my new belongings in glitter
i do not know what this name means
or the fate that the owner of this name is meant to find
but i have heard it is better than being an alice.
(i liked being alice more
i liked a story written for my sake.)
as i walk into the new forest,
towards hopefully my last story
or at least a story i can make my own for once,
i can’t help but think of
all the laughing men, now laughing giants
fixing my home to their liking.
i can’t help but be a bit bitter
looking at my hands that can only build for people like them.
Tag Archives: seat
a broken end
i refuse to go out into
the storm of kindness
where well-meaning people
drunk on the idea of charity
are running amok on streets.
they don’t know themselves
but they know my kind,
they know all the kinds of people
i might turn into
if i don’t give up and let them in.
they want to know the name of person
who broke me so well.
they want me to cry a bit
and to try saying hello first.
the seat they sit on, still has my warmth.
i still know the name of strangers i prayed for.
how easily things change.
every life had hope,
every pain could be overcome
as long as they were not mine.
and the me that i was, that you hated once, but not as much what i am right now
and your rough sketch of me that looks like bits and pieces of your past lovers
and your ticking clock, both waiting for me to change
and you habit of making me wait, of walking out on me
and your empty seat that you have already forgotten
with your air of arrogance that i pretend not to see for the sake of loving you
and your smile that sometimes (most of the times) have nothing to do with me
and your calls out of blue, calling me love, calling me heartless, throwing me away and calling me back,
and your words, your voice always asking for more
and your insistence of loving in past and hating in present
and your love that wants never to be associated with me
and your cruelty of always forgetting (only) me, forgetting the hurt you cause
asking me to love you back in spite of all, asking me to speak only in sweet words, never asking me how i made it through the pain you gave me last time, never wondering what do i want out of this love, that has no place for me
there is a wide world,
there are your wide arms ,
a beautiful fate with your voice,
words that you and I made together,
a seat for two, a future for more.
exists everything I ever cared for,
ceaselessly asking me to open up
telling me this would be the end of my loneliness
if I do the ‘letting-in’ this time.
there supposedly exists a world
that doesn’t hate me as I thought it would.
I know it isn’t me,
it is what I love that keeps you all away.
But what good is laying myself bare
when I can only breathe in the darkness
that you and this world hates so much.
Have you heard about the lady that sits two seats away.
They have an awful lot to say about her.
I have never heard her speak,
but what I hear about her
is so much more interesting
than what she could possibly tell me.
No, I do not participate is spreading lies
or statements that that are as likely to be true
as they can be false.
Some days I end up feeling more than I should.
I think of all the days I was her.
Now I am not, nor will I ever be again.
But once I was
and that makes me feel sad and then angry at her
for showing me something that I do not want to see.
If her story and her life
could have existed somewhere out of my sight,
I could have afforded some sympathy.
If I didn’t expect her to do all that I should have
and all that I couldn’t,
maybe I could have taken into consideration
that weakness that all of want get rid of.
Rest of the days
I keep my eyes open and try to see her
apart from what I know of her,
apart from what I see of me in her.
And what little resemblance to my sorrow she had
vanishes as quickly as it appeared,
telling me to look for another mirror,
preferably not a person,
to see and regret all that I can’t blame myself for.