so my blue dream is not even mine now. i am just a mesh of people who hate me. their fingers are my fingers now poking my skin, endless railroads of red are built with their nails that they do not even cut before they sell me their fake love-filled eyes. their eyes are my eyes that wants to smash every reflective surface where i fall. every reflective thought is just a poison. a poison, a gossip, an untrue version of me running wild in the minds of those who look at me. they gossip about me so i gossip about myself , whisper my secrets into the air or better, into the ears of lovers who are chosen especially for their talents in indifference, vulnerability, and emotional violence. lovers who can break me – are all that i want. i need someone else to do this breaking for me because i am coward who can’t move towards the end i want, and also because my hands are busy. i have more things to do. i need my hands to tear my talents apart in the name of value, tear my feelings apart in the name of my worthlessness. i need my hands to paint again and again. paint indifferences on my insecurities that come a bit too often to the surface of my skin now, paint laugh lines on the bleeding corners of my lips, paint dreams of love, moments of hurt, grand betrayals on my otherwise lonely mind, paint humans that match the shadows in me, painting causes and assurances. i must paint. i must paint a reason- a reason why i suffer so, why this world works like how it does, why i must break as the world breaks, why i must break even for fixing this world. i must paint a face so that others don’t break at the sight of my face. i clip my nails everyday so that when i become someone’s ghost when someone suffers because of me at least my hands won’t leave them scars.
It is not the night that brings in the monsters. They are just creatures, just nature- that exist outside the door that you are guarding.
They come in because this world is theirs as well. They come in because they can, just like how you can go out. This is the fair deal you don’t want to exist.
At least they do not look for you, they do not mark your picture and throw darts at it. I love them for that, for the lack of vicious premeditation, the lack of fun in their delivery of hurt.
The river of pills that flows into my window has nothing to do with them. The hurt that keeps you awake, the nails that slowly make marks on the surface of your eyes
this ruined place, this brokenness are always the gifts of the ones who look like us. This has nothing to do with the monsters. This has nothing to do with nights.
But has knowing such things ever helped. The days are just as frightful as nights. Now anything that looks like me, and everything that doesn’t – they are possible ends of me.
Now I must either run away from everything or must end up loving them all, forgiving them all – this broken temple of knowledge, this fake shallow sacred unions, these glorious wretched feelings that won’t let me remain me. How far should I run. How foolishly should I love. How do I decide.
I want to write of things I don’t know of. About the feelings I never had, the bodies that never surfaced in the rivers that exist only on the grounds of treasure-less maps, the feelings I spoke of but never ever actually felt as if it happened to me. My love was like everyone else’s, so much that I was acutely aware of their borrowed nature. I want to write of things I don’t know of, about a love that is truly mine, a feeling that is not plagiarized. When you casually say “you don’t know anything of love” I don’t want to feel guilty, like I always do.
All I could do was to wait for the stone of doubt and my rippled heart to settle.
But my surface never knows peace the veins of leaves, the claws of birds, they touch me and demand an expression and I play along. I give way to them.
I am learning giving way, giving in is what people call love. And the core of what I am, therefore, doesn’t believe in love.
The tired core of me would have probably believed in love if it was not so easy to get, a love that was never a win-win situation, that demanded a bit more hurt, that asked me to see someone outside of myself.
I drowned the flowers one by one. The poison of beauty now runs through the rivers on this land, they fill his backyard in every season of rain. A child with his smile drowns another boat of dreams, the flood is a field of paper, the flood is all that is left of me. She stares into me, waiting for a reflection to surface. She walks into me to see where I end.
She tells me about the boy she can’t love and the boy she can’t blame as I dissolve and submerge the red gates of her house, the garden of forgiveness, her school shoes, all roads to her friend who doesn’t smile back anymore, the spoons that remind her of hunger for farthest worlds and people.
She asks me how deep will be this pain of losing herself, how long she would have to smile through this hate. I flow into her heart, wondering, if there I could turn back to the flower I was, if the end of my hate could be the end of her pain. If I could be her answer of hope.
i try not to think about the places that are lost and evaporated only leaving clouds of colorless memories floating on my not so blue sky
places that are lost not only to me but to this world now no one will ever know the sweetness of the light that was never beautiful enough to be captured and framed light that is only beautiful only in its death beautiful only when it rises up without a reason on the surface of our eyes
how my eyes miss seeing everything that now cannot be seen my eyes wake up from the dream of yesterday into this new day that i must write feeling that again i have lost something, something meaningful in that dream that will never return to me a dream that i have no right to dream again
i try not to think about such losses losses with name or reason or heartache but no matter how much try some days that is all i can think about
he sings the most beautiful song. so beautiful that the sky becomes a reflection of the heart that he can barely carry in himself. the words on his lips they break, they sound different, feel different, they sound like the first cry of a baby- the violent coming to life. they run and collide and shatter against the rough indifferent surface of this dying world, a not-so-bad world. he becomes a not-so-bad singer. as he runs out of breath and love someone places a coin of gold in his hands. he means to feel grateful for this compensation, but all he can do is hold his tongue, hold his tears. hold his bitterness in himself and sing another song dreaming, waiting for an honest reply, a genuine care, an understanding gaze in return for laying bare his humanness.