In the orange forest of drowning suns I saw your face in the light going out first. I stood with my empty nets, on a boat, with oars that won’t budge, won’t sail away from your closing eyes. I played this only memory I had of you throughout my journey back. When my feet found a ground to breathe again, you had already grown bigger, sadder, scarier, sorrier presence in my life.
Through my dinner that night, I thought up names you may have had, the people you may have loved, the heartaches you thought would never end. I thought of how easily things end, how nothing in our heart can save our heart from this lonely end. Were you thankful or sad that you had to know this, to share this realization with a stranger made of cold eyes and numb limbs?
That night I looked for your body in every ocean I had in me. I don’t know what was the point of this search but I knew I had to do something about you, that my feet had to walk distances because of you, that something in me must hurt more than it did now. That finally I had to die with you, to know what I don’t know now, to know even a fraction of your pain. I was sad and relieved that my need to know you ended there – with that thought, with the steps I cannot take.
Outside my body, outside myself I feel I can be the the girl who walks to a stranger, smiles and asks his name, who keeps her name in her mouth, and doesn’t throw it away along with the chewing gum in the nearest trash can.
Would she hold his hand? I think she would. But even then would she be reminded of the the poem she wrote in seventh grade “the ugliness of people dripping from their hands at nights, holding my breath, crushing my 27 teeth under an unwanted kiss, promising to kill me next time“. Probably not. That poem doesn’t exist in this world, let’s keep reminding ourselves that.
So yes, she holds this stranger a bit more closer than she would have deemed wise if she saw it how I would and she would make promises- the kind lovers makes before they know what love is. He will ask about her life and she will have no sad story to tell. So she would talk about the recent window shopping- the things she can’t have and things she can’t get and she will not be talking in metaphors for once.
For once the one she wants to love wouldn’t be obsessed with the wounds on her skin to love, to treasure, to poke, to mock, to dig down further, to own and to burn. He will probably say something sweet about her smile or maybe something boring about his work and she would smile a bit more in either case. Because she can smile here, in this world, in front of him, without having to think about what his each word might hide, what she is over-looking, what will be the tiny details that will come back to hurt her, what will be the undoing of her heart. She will smile cause she won’t have learned to be hate people beforehand, she wouldn’t have learned to love a bit too late.
She would tell him that he is lovely, and the blush in his cheeks will make her heart skip and she would love him for loving him and not because she is looking for an easy fix to her faltering mind.
At a bus stand in front of mall (that I have never been to) I learnt how to wait and how to live with disappointments without making a big deal of it.
In the bracket of an hour, I grew smaller than I ever thought I could be. “this is what love does to you, this is what love does to all of us”, all the voices in me lied. I was again weary of the love that I had chosen and the person I had trusted (“again” – the word that showed me the real reason why it would never work out).
I stood beside strangers on the crowded bus stand, awkwardly crying. I counted these not-so-scary strangers who were trying to become one skin. I pretended that I hated to be rained on as much as they did. I pretended that I didn’t mind their warmth, that my suspicious mind was not at work again.
Hours went by, empty roads faithfully stayed empty. I became more aware of the boundaries of my body I became aware of the person who would never come looking for me, who would look at the three hour long rain and still won’t wonder what happened to me.
We all stood there, pretending to be the only human in the group of zombies who had taken over a bus stand out of boredom, who stared at the wide road, the darkness beyond, and the emptiness behind as if their eyes were made to witness only this moment. I closed my eyes and hummed something, anything that could drown the presence of everyone who knew the sound of my breaking heart now.
At a bus stand, that could protect no one, we all dreamt of the worst- of the submerged road, a rain that will never stop, the cold that would take us down for days, children forever waiting, of the lightning we could hear but not see
of a love painlessly ending and a heart that shamelessly survived.
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.
“warm” this word has become cold sitting at the base of my throat my throat burns and my everything else? my everything else -my pretty flesh and my ugly insides- who want me to be there and at the same want me gone. i guess they want me to change. this is my new low where my organs are my imaginary friends the only ones Ican talk to, the only ones who need me, the only ones I can disappoint, my new friends who are learning the weariness of living for me. I ask around for a lover who has a love for knives and tolerance for madness of all kinds. I hear a hundred thousand sighs in me when the new replacement of romance appears, asks me my name and digs his sharp canine teeth on the last bits of my happiness as a hello. The hundred folded cranes look more like ravens and the one who promises me an end is now my only hope. Now things are easy now that I can’t hear myself breaking now that I have this strange loud laugh to hide behind, this person stranger than me, taking up the blame of everything I have done, helping me hide from everything that I have killed in my life.
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.
i am in love with the woman who sings and becomes the background of my every night.
i like to listen to her voice as she takes my every second keeps it out of my reach, teaches me some really suspicious ways to keep myself safe from the her demons.
she glows in the darkness that she sews only for me, for me to hold her hand the way she will never be held, the way i will never be held.
i hate to cry, i have cried for a long time for people who called me their option when i was out of earshot my tears are cheap, now all they do is make me feel equally cheap but the tears i shed for her life are beautiful the tears i shed for her (who feels like me) stops me from taking pills i don’t need.
another lover of hers sat opposite me few days ago. she looked so much like her. it made me wonder if i looked like her as well. i wonder she knows her lovers are running amok in the world that she paints with her pain. i wonder if she knows that we are catching all her fears, staying away from guys who speak like her ex, staying away from the patterns she has pointed out.
i wonder if she knows that we tell strangers “she sings well, she writes well” when we want say “she made me embrace the woman in me that i have been trying to kill for a long long time. she stood in my moonlight counting all the daggers that make her bleed every day, the same daggers that i fear to acknowledge, telling me about the exact number of days it takes to collapse again, about the face, her heart, and her womb that are for anyone’s taking, about her rage, her mind, and her will that she was allowed to keep. how she wanted to give up last night. how giving up can become a concept of life every easily but she didn’t want that, because she didn’t want to be the sad pathetic corpse of the woman that the world said she would eventually be.”
i am in love with the woman who wants me to be more than a silent background.
Now that we are an year apart. Now that everyone has been talking about new beginnings and second chances, I let myself be myself, let myself be swayed at the hope, at the thought of the ONE.
But being myself also means to be keep my heart broken. It means to leave every crowded room to find the corridors where I can be finally alone with the mistakes I am about to make.
I hold someone who could have been you but is not. I cry the same tears that once made you pity me. I jot down a name and a number and a weakness, a need where I could fit myself into.
And as I lay in bed I feel something sad and beautiful in my heart- an end that I am creating for myself. This is how love has always been for me, so I let it be and smile as I kiss another stranger who won’t be able to save me from anything.
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.