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.
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.
my heaven would have flowers in blue, a storm of sunshine, a road that runs like the soft song that you once made me hear, a sparrow that never stays still.
obviously i do not know what it would be like to live in such a heaven. whether i would really be at peace there. but through the walls of stone that i could never scale it looked so beautiful- the world that you lived in.
but i cannot break what i am nor can i chase away the shadows that i depend on it is too late for that. so before i close my eyes for the last time let me hold you close. become my last memory, become my heaven.
as i get inside the crowded bus, a phone rings. a ringtone just like yours.
has the world shrunk to the size of the tragedy we created, that i find you like this?
i know it is not you, but it could be. so i do not turn back. it could be you, so i try not to cry.
this is not where walking away or breaking clean should lead to. at least not back to you. at least not like this. not on the day i finally felt that i could move toward a new happiness.
why did you come back? to tell me how i am not worthy of anything good? to tell me no one can love something like me? to tell me how thinking is unhealthy for love like ours? to check if my skin remembers your anger? to tell me to speak softly, to submit to your wishes if i wish to be forgiven for your mistakes?
why did you come back, when you don’t even want me?
There is a wall of flowers before her. She looks at it as if they are a softer kind of firework, a firework in reverse, the colors leaving the petals, crawling deep into itself, leaving the color of the inevitable sad ending that Nature always ends up falling for, after a series of boys who lied to her about a forever in their mellow green kisses.
A lesson on subtraction for a girl trying to learn about the reasons and the ways a void like hers is created.
you are now just a butterfly in the unruly garden of my life.
you were once the laughter in our home. your hands were once as warm as mine. you were so many things, the one who knew how to make everyone smile, the one who could soothe my heart with a kind understanding glance, the one who never cried (now I guess you must have cried, knowing how you left us here like this).
they told me you were too weak to live. i gulped down their answer even when i knew they were lying. i was afraid of knowing the real reasons, i was afraid of knowing what I had overlooked.
the soil was so soft in my hand, the day they buried you. i cried through my meals for days. no one consoled me. no one told me things will get better. no one told me to grow up. and something told me i would never grow up.
No it is not an escape anymore because it is not only me who is into these addictions of milder kind. All I want is what everyone already has. Don’t worry these books and music I get high on don’t alter my perception of reality like they used to before. So I am fine with irrelevant goals of having one more book to read, one more page to fill up, and some hours to sit and stare at screens of literature of a cruder form. They may not constitute the real meaning of life. But I have not seen anyone who is particularly worried about missing the real point of life.
. . . . . .
I know this consumerism and media culture irritates you. That I look like one of the thousands who sit and demand to be entertained, to be fed with something other than the reality of insufficient time and cash. Would it make me more real, would your gaze become more softer if I bring up a portion of my life where I was hurt by this world, when the reality didn’t change just because of my disappointment in it. That not everyone can be one with the nature and one with society, when nature is far away from where we are locked, when society is all about waiting for someone else to mess up on a grander scale than us. See that is what I don’t want to talk about. It is depressing enough to live it. We can either discuss about how I almost found friend in a fictional character, found a mirror or even a window in another, how I do not agree with most reviews, how I couldn’t get the tragic end of the story out my head.
. . . . . .
I don’t mind sitting in front immaculate shows of lies if that is where the my temporary relief of my life is hidden, at least we are entitled to that much – relief.
The sun that shrivels up in your eyes every morning,
the dry tear that never leaves your eyes,
the soft bend in your words when make excuses for other’s fault,
the hint of self-berating in your mellowed down tales of woe.
This weakness that is similar to mine.
This weakness that I love.
I wish I could free you from this,
if only I knew how.
I am stuck somewhere between
the hopeless continuation
and the frightening end.
The spiraling down tower of
love, the staggering me-
filled to brim with saved up hopes
spilling, losing one calming delusion at a time-
wasted on the people, wasted on reality
that never wants to change,
never wants to grow.
The soft sky falling on this world
talking everything with itself,