I find myself trapped between forgiveness and frustration.
How often have I said that I want to be your strength. How easy it was to say it when I didn’t really know you or me.
But now when your breaking and my sadness is of your making I am fumbling for better words-
words that can show my heart that aches for you and because of you,
words that don’t forget or diminish your own hurt while talking about the parts of me that are finally dying after loving you for so long,
words that show my hatred for my brittle self, for my heart that is not big enough for real pain or real forgiveness.
Now I don’t know to talk about saving you, about loving you in spite of the demon you warned me about, the part of you that is stronger than me and you, together or apart.
As I kiss you I hear the other part of you digging playgrounds in rain, erasing you furiously from your skin, coloring each bruise with paint of happiness, clawing me, scaring me, making me scared for you.
As I kiss you I want to stand with you in your nightmare I want you to have someone beside you for once. As I kiss you I want to run far away from your world and forget this love.
One of these days I might just stop loving you and that might just break me. But I feel I might be less cold, less reckless, and less pathetic in that sort of breaking. I want to be reduced to myself for once. For once I don’t want to carry around the magnificence of undelivered love on my shoulder and stand outside stores with doors too small. I dream to become the whole of my skin rather than just the wounds that hurt. I think only this dream can save me, make something peaceful out of me, make me someone harmless. One of these days I will look at you and nothing in me would ache, at least not because of you.
i slipped, fell, and cut my skin. i didn’t want to care, but i did. i couldn’t help but feel sorry for all the harmless things that ended up being cursed at, blamed for only because i ran towards them with all that i had in me. i recalled the formula of impact, that never meant so much to me till i realized that I also have a body that follows every law ordained by nature. that just because i can imagine and dream an eternity, doesn’t make me or my feelings eternal. i didn’t want to care about such things, but i did. i cared so much that it hurt, even when it should’t.
the wafer breaks and crumbles my teeth find a red muscle to kill again my mouth bleeds but no iron strikes my taste so i wait for it i wait for my imagined pain to become real
i look at my hands my unsightly weak hands they are portals to my past self how they weighed its emptiness even when they held you how i knew that you won’t last, we won’t last and i hated myself for knowing it
i wonder if my skin, my lips gave you a premonition similar to that did you know that we would end up sharing every hurt and that it would never stop that the we would continue to run even when the dream ends every cut mine, every drop of red yours everything painful – only ours
She makes circles on the back of my hand. She writes “love” again and again on my skin so that I don’t forget her. She writes “love” again and again with her fingers so that she may not forget I am still not lost to her. That I can be different as long as she sees me for me and she lets me see an unaltered part of her once in a while. Few more alphabets follow of my name and hers and all the names we wish we could forget just the way we are forgetting to love even when that is the only thing we want to remember. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to a song that plays only in the past, wondering why I learned these words that only give me pain, give her pain, give us only half of each other while we are missing more pieces than we were made of, why my losses are more than my being, why we have to stop here, by this cliff, every evening waiting for our ghosts to take a step back, to look back at us and see the happy ending waiting for them, why we are invisible to our ghosts who only speak of names and futures that we have grown to hate?
As I wait for you in the back seat of your car almost losing sense of my limbs and my scars I smile – the sad smile I would never use when I am sober. I smile thinking, thankful, at least I am not crying and waiting in the trunk of some stranger’s car. I don’t necessarily love you but I guess I love your pattern, the predictability of your anger, the time I have to prepare my skin to shatter. I think about the times I have been broken and abandoned by the loves and by the men before you I think about your anger that I never forget this past. I think about your hands that I can count on even when your hands love my pain the most. I think of your funny jokes, the food you cook in your good mood, the songs that you hum as you move around the house, your bluish white wings and your flickering halo when you are asleep by my side. I think I can love you a bit after all.
It hurts a bit more naturally and less violently, now that betrayal has a range, has not one but many faces. Now I need not figure what I did wrong.
All the boxes are checked:
family, family, friends, not friends, thank-god-we-were-never-friends friends, i-am-sad-i-stood-up-for-you friends, people who marked my skin with their name to own me while i slept in their arms (another golden cup added to collection of people hard to get, people who won’t die if thrown away or left alone) loves whom i am tied to, the ones who demand smile and sometimes a bit more, always a bit more.
They know the feel of my hand and love how it heals. They hold my hand in their sleep in their nightmares, in the storms of passion that they need a person to aim at. They break my wrist in my nighmares, in my awareness of my fruitless love. When I am at verge of crying, they tell me to not give them a hard time and to act like the refuge that I am supposed to be.
So I tell them “I love you” and this lie hurts a little less everyday as my heart becomes the stone pedestal all my loves stand on.
I regret to tell you this that the blue sky that you died for is not longer blue. It is painting its face with remains of our greed, with the colors of our wars. But it is still sort of fair. It is trying hard not to choose sides, not to become the flags that unites only those whose favorite words are ‘future’, ‘safety’,’money’, ‘greatness’, while they clutch in their hands the fate of people they don’t identify with- ‘burden’ they call them. ‘Fear’ is another favorite word of theirs. They don’t speak much of it, but it is most useful or at least that’s what I have heard from the ones we are no longer allowed to call out or even mock. I have lost every bit of my passive aggressiveness. Life has become more bearable now that my skin is not broken for making too much noise, now that we have learnt to hold each other’s tongue so that we may not lose more friends than we already have. I regret to tell you that your dreams will remains dreams and you might be one of the last to know how dreams felt in your eyes, how tomorrow used to change by effort.
The dead world lives through her. Her escape is a door left open for the violence to spread, or so she always believed. When she saw someone who reminded her of love, saw that the fragile bird of happiness would choose sit by her window and wait for her to sing back, when all that could make her feel safe and somehow better smiled at her and asked her name. She would remember how from her skin and her mind grew trees of fear every night. The flood that has left her land loomed above this forest. Anytime the cloud would burst, the past would burst through her smile, and all would be lost. Today, tomorrow, day after, on an afternoon when she would forget about it all, on a beautiful day like that she knows she will find sorrow again. So she stays quiet and writes a softer tragedy of a girl who could never tell her name to anyone who chose her hoping for happiness.
How long should I bleed for the one who holds the knife.
I pluck another flower of kindness to appease the one who won’t even smile for me. He looks at it and tells me the tested foolproof ways to kill this useless plant that grows in me and cracks his shield.
He tells me he will love me more if I will cut his skin instead of making him look as bad as he is, if I struggle a bit to get back at him rather than struggle to know him like this.
He says “i would like us to be peas of the same pod, i would like us to be the insects with same appetite, i would like you so so much more, if you would help me rule this world that doesn’t listen to me. if you could speak the same words as i do, words dipped in careless anger rather than the ones served with pity. don’t tell me the danger of my dagger by slicing away your skin. you feel more like an enemy now. the more you bleed to make me suffer, to make me give up, the farther you get from the person i could love.”
How long should I bleed for the one who holds the knife to stop him from cutting his own heart. This will hurt him, he knows, eventually if not now. Yet he is becoming a creature of claw with a paper skin, he is growing a dream from the horrors he has only read. The unnatural pauses on his lips, the look of helplessness in his eyes makes me wonder if he even knows how to stop.