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.
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart. they see through you. even when they say hello they almost get your name wrong, you can tell it from the look in their eyes. they drink and fill every room with songs that were not so hard to bear when they were just noises that radio made. they tell you in their drunken stupor that no one cares.
they say no one cares even when you call the cab, drag them home, hurt your hand in the struggle, scrape more than skin, lose more than patience, leave them on a bed not made for weeks probably, you don’t want to guess or know. so you close the door, climb down the stairs shut down the part of mind reserved for them, but remember how they have been liking and sharing too many dark poems, how those poems speak in their voice in your mind. so you climb back, remove every blade and knife and realize it is just the beginning. you feel exhausted by the inexhaustible list of things that can help end a life, that can serve as a full stop.
so you sleep on the couch or pretend to, till your head hurts from pretending. now that you want something true you call your love and tell him that you don’t know how to handle this, how to sleep and yet keep an eye on the one whom you suspect is waiting, waiting for you to close your eyes for a second to make an exit that doesn’t exist. he tells you that they are beyond hope at the same time he forwards articles that could give you hope. he tells you to sleep tight knowing you won’t.
when you wake up at the sound of tears being microwaved for breakfast, you see another day that won’t be right. you see them trying not to break yet breaking and abandoning everything around them so that their hurt can be felt by the world. they look at you and smile while they pour another glass toasting “another drink for the world that doesn’t care, another drink for the loveless me.”
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart.
years from now i hope my living room has a space for a lovely piano. i hope my fingers would play something beautiful on it. that here i would smile and not know of the passing time. that i would learn to love my walls as much as the world that stands on the other side. as my child misses me, cries for me, tries to keep me alive when i am not, i hope she feels this music she can’t hear, i hope she sees the future i couldn’t finish living, i hope she knows that my warmth is more than my skin and my blood running under it.
i try to sleep, to forget the pain near my spine, to forget all the hours in front of me that i have no use of. i look at my palm from near and from as far as my hands can extend. i notice how my hands have changed. do i like it better now? i wonder if it possible to like anything about my body now. i remember once deciding not to at least hate this skin that has use for everyone but not to me. i remember saying “as long as it makes you happy” at the same time thinking “i don’t think you care for my happiness”. i stop myself from finding more things that make me confused or miserable. i unlock my phone. it’s 8 already- more and more notifications, …5GB extra..Alert:You have spent… …has added a new post…added a new story airplane mode, the notifications continue to pile up in my head- all the words that i will never get to see that i always expected even when i knew i shouldn’t, it has been long……sorry, for making you feel alone… today i saw something and was reminded of you. even though we are not together, it is not your fault… thank you for being there for me……it must have been tough… don’t hurt yourself i feel smaller knowing that even the words i want are only words of consolation, just confirmation that i am not the worst. i look at my hands again and wonder if my hatred for myself colors my skin. is that how everyone gets know that i don’t have the courage to ask for fair, for loyalty, for answers? is that how i look? someone who doesn’t have the voice to ask anything anymore.
I have tried so hard to become someone who cannot be be loved without effort or tears.
My faith in love, my faith in those who love or it’s absence is not so difficult to explain.
Clue: Every pop song that leaves you in shambles. Clue: The books that you call cheap literature. Clue: The lovers who want to get to the happy ending fast, so they can think about and focus on more important stuff. Clue: The sappy feelings that you are not interested in.
Those who first talk of my skin and my volume when they talk of love. (I mean you.) Those who think that my view of the world, and how the world views me is just a phase that won’t hopefully be their burden for life. (I mean you.) Those who tell me about my selfishness, my unreasonable fears, my unstable suspicious tiring mind over lunch as they run their blade over every bit of exposed skin of mine. Those who are satisfied when I don’t even wince as I bleed, just the way I have been trained. (I mean you.) You have made this whole process more difficult than it should be.
Don’t ask me the easy way. I might just begin to hate you for that question.
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 board the train that I could thinking, only thinking about the one I couldn’t. There are only tunnels, only darkness, no network, only cold metal that I rest my head hoping for my fever to come down, only windows that turn into mirror.
In those momentary mirrors I always look like someone on life support. In the crowd that no longer suffocates me I cling to the wires that fill my ears with the sound of past, with love that will never come back, with the love that I will never be, with everything I can’t bear to talk about nor forget.
Though it pains me to look at myself for more than 2 seconds, I force myself to withstand my stare. For if I take my eyes away from me I end up looking into eyes of strangers who twist and distort their faces asking for a reason they can understand or they end up looking away, their heart as fragile as mine.
We all act as if we can know each other by a glance, as if we would prefer to be the backdrop, the wallpaper than to find eyes that can actually see us, than to know one more human who is hell bent on proving the brittleness of our species. I understand their heart, their fear all too well. My skin remembers what their heart has forgotten. Though I don’t think anyone really forgets things like these.
Drop by drop the wax fills the bucket of broken butterflies.
I am falling into another sleep, into another death that is warm, that embraces me like no lover ever has.
I feel the pain in my wings, and unlike other days I try to think that this will never pass. That I will remain like this, with a bit of pain always there in my shoulder blades, under my ribs, aching for a memory that floats above my body, above my existence.
Someone holds my hand and I let them. I was always afraid of living and dying alone. I guess there are many like me.
Years from now they will find us and probably write stories about how we loved each other even in death. As they look at our almost ruined and almost saved faces they won’t know how we died heartbroken, how we held onto each other but never dared to look at each other or ask the names we had started to hate. How our skins melted into each other only because we had nowhere else to be. That even as light broke free from our eyes we didn’t want to look like failure.
“i was born like this”, I lie, when I really want to say
“the normal ones, the sane ones are surprisingly excellent at breaking anyone without any guilt whatsoever.
i no longer have strength to leave them, or beg them, or handle the repercussion of wanting them.
i fear them only when i cry though i am not exactly sure why it should be so.
the positivity, the kindness, the unity, the charity, the world peace that they talk about looks so beautiful when put in action for example, there are holes in me though i have never seen a bullet in my life and i am not allowed to say it is their doing “it is a result of my negative thinking and bad karma” i parrot like i have been taught to.
this burnt skin, this distrustful heart, the layers of clothes that are prerequisite of proving my modesty if god-forbid i let loose an animal in someone just because i exist, the logs of missed calls and blocked calls and blocked memories that are the only things protecting me now. this is how i was born.“
Though absurd, it sounds like truth the more I say it. This is how I hurt whatever is left of my heart.
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully to the edge of the table, where your glass stands. At the edge where you place your suitcase, where you always tie your laces once again just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love when you think I might lend something of me to keep such place alive, to keep you warm while you keep the door open like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky, when your new birds keep singing songs of ‘soulmates’ with better specification when it becomes your new caller tune, when you think of the best version of your life. You think of that too often, quite loudly for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.” “i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“ “call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“ “call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“ “call me. meet me. i want us to end.“ “you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“ “you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself. i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything that I dangerously left at the edges just to be your equal, just to make sense of you- I am glad I have claimed back my madness instead of trying to understand yours. I am glad I do not have to live my life compensating for your weakness, calling it love.