“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.
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.
I don’t drink coffee. I quit long ago, don’t remember why. I quit long ago, you haven’t just noticed yet. Nevertheless there are two cups on this table. that is all it takes to make me feel that we are strangers. But you are the only stranger who loves me. You only love me because you don’t know me. That is all it takes to make me feel indebted and guilty. I guess one cup won’t hurt much.
From my empty room, from the edge of my personal cliff, I looked into the windows of strangers, looked over their shoulder at texts they write, looked at the pages where their bookmark rests, silently waited at the edge of my chair trying to overhear responses to the big questions.
And all I have known by prying so hard is that there is nothing there. Nothing in the text that could pass for shorthand. The same book rests on the same table for years, serving only the role of a carefully thought out accessory. No question is big enough to be carefully considered. No relationship is important enough to be held to heart. That I was foolish to believe otherwise till now. That I am putting myself on another path to heartbreak if I do not believe in the night that I see. I must unlearn the way I have lived to find a place to belong.
In between the cold beginning and cruel ends that are the parentheses of our lives, there is nothing for me to hang on to. But it helps to know that there are plenty of empty rooms in this painful smaller eternity, that I need not kill myself over an emptiness so common. And it is really difficult to feel alone once I know that.
A pane breaks somewhere far away. Everyone precious to me stays there- this place called ‘far away’. So these things I must record, these things I must remember
“it could have been a stranger”, I try to reason. But it is of no avail. I am afraid that the life broken just now, must be too close to me for my heart to bleed so, for my hands to go limp.
The nights I read every book on ‘how to hide this incurable pain from my family’, they flash in front of my eyes. That is all I see when I dial their number and they don’t pick up. That is all I see when they pick the call and tell me that they can never be ‘not fine’. That is all I see when I see holes in their stories, when I see a new hole in their smile every morning.