As I climb, my steps remembered the shoes I once had the ones that didn’t hurt so much and how hands of mine that hacked through them just to become my own person, some sort of grown-up. I climbed over the yellow soft dress and the light that it caught just to get this, this body that looks held together but is not (this body knows only how to fall apart), just to get few more shadows that ruin my beautiful wrist with their persistent passion. They claw through me, to see how I am made, how I look and speak once I break. A stranger once left me at the bottom of a black pond and called it love just so that I won’t cry and in return I called him my love just for few breaths, just for my life. I climbed over the right to mean the word “love” thereafter and the dream of knowing a heart other than mine. I breathe as if I have sinned yet I walk like I am happiness and determination in flesh. I cling to all the bitter bits of this world as if they would ultimately save me. I climb over, get over, and forget so easily, so bitterly that each feeling of mine is just a shade of resentment.
my other head bleeds and falls off as does my bloody knife
i can no longer call myself a victim of life now that my sin is set in stone
few more hours for the sun to rise few more hours i must bear the company of my face in few more hours the world will love me now that i look like them and kill like them they will surely love me for having one less brain and one less mouth
my eyes look back at me not accusingly but with pity of what have i done to myself but i dare not cry and act as if i am the one being wronged my tears- i’ll be burying them under the red petunias that you loved
my hearts beats furiously as if running towards something, perhaps an end end of me? end of her? it feels wrong saying “her”, “you” as if a knife is all it takes to set things conveniently wrong
i close the door and leave my open mouth and questioning eyes on the kitchen table i break a nail and break my heart as i dig two graves for myself
my feet relentlessly insist on burning themselves for the sake of summer mood.
i wear a shirt too big for me. a wear a smile a bit too small. i wear the worry of my parents on my neck.
i feel their fear when i smile back at strangers. i pretend to be the sand that no one can hurt. i pretend to be the sea that doesn’t end. i pretend no man in this beautiful scene would hurt someone like me.
but my feet, they burn, they bleed. my feet that only wanted freedom from the moment i was born, now they make me feel like the mermaid who was not wise enough.
i feel like i am losing a part of myself every time a stranger asks for my name, every time they accidentally touch my skin to fill me with shame and sin. i pretend to be cool, to be understanding, to be blind as i feel like the monster that brings out the worst in people. as i erase my memories everyday to put faith in people whom i find hard to trust.
I heard her again complain about warm hands. A hand that remains warm, always warm, so warm that it almost becomes a fault, a flaw. That it turns into blame, into words that make no sense- “I could have loved him if he was not so good. Good is suspicious. Good is bland. Good is you when you try to be something you are not. He cannot know my heart, if he cannot be human enough to sin”, she said. I wonder why I never met them – the bland people who would be good for my heart, whom I seek in every hand I touch. Maybe I confused grand gestures, big promises, passionate gaze for goodness too many times. I wonder if it is just my weakness, my weariness that now wants someone harmless to live along with.
In a dull handheld mirror that had yet to be broken, I looked at myself and realized that someone is dying inside me.
I didn’t know how to accept this, so I solved every question in my math textbook. I learned to eat more and sleep late. Stared at my wrist for hours. Pretended to sleep fearing questions. Tried a bit of every sin and waited around to be damned.
I felt a constant urge to break someone so this world could be little less happier. But death claimed my heart before I could do that. So now I write “love” on your tongue without knowing what it means.
When the wind blows
there are no branches to shake,
no windows to rattle,
no forgotten clothes to be abducted from my backyard,
no ghost songs to invite me to new nightmares.
Only your imagined face,
that looks nothing like you these days,
in these lifeless eyes
Making you almost real,
making me wonder
what is the distance in time
that I must travel,
how much should I age,
how much should my mind wither,
for you to disappear?
How many sins I should commit
so that my hands are not stained
only by your tears.
Even though we know we will end up being disappointed in ourselves we still want find that same mirror again and again, expecting to see something different. Hoping that it will work out one day. Hoping one day our faults would be too insignificant to matter. Relying on the surety of the forgetfulness of the world than the forgiveness that we couldn’t dare to ask.
But even if the world forgets,
even if our skin grows anew,
even if our sins become untraceable,
these eyes of ours
remain the same,
always lingering on the spot
where we have buried our past.
Passing of time does nothing to reduce our fear
of being seen for what we are.
Even when that image of what we were
exists nowhere in this world,
it is the only way we can ever see ourselves.
Once you go to other side,
you are not welcome back.
And even if second chances grant you entry here,
you will eternally be on parole,
under the watchful eyes of others.
In this bright world, I live
as a prisoner
where my sins are my new name.
I have waited and dreaded this moment
where all my memories come rushing back in
and all my sins outweigh the suffering I had
and nothing I could tell myself
will absolve me from my crimes.
I can look back and say
“I was immature and I didn’t know enough.”
But is that enough?
But is that a valid reason?
Can any reason
validate the pain that continues to grow
in the chest of other
while my own brain is busy burying facts
that puts me in a bad light?
How can I talk like this
as if I am the one suffering?
But if I look back one more time
I am afraid I can never move forward.
Does it make sense that still I think of myself?
What kind of repentance is this?
Does it make sense for me to cry?
Our hearts are perpetually
in a time
that flows around us.
And our ghosts pin us to our sins,
while we yearn to be the person
we were a second ago.
Though our heart are
full of ashes and smoke
of loves we have burned with us.
We still hopelessly wish to be with the one
that we have destroyed.
We live in the distance
that no apologies can cover.
that many suffer
but only few endure.