We once loved this world more than ourselves. Now we just like everything only as much as our own temperaments and thoughts permit.
The oranges reminds him of view from his broken home, the sour taste of everything that should have been beautiful.
The glowing beads fill my mind with the images of meaningless gifts, the faces of men and friends that always fall short even in the face if my plummeting expectations.
Going out of our way to hide is the measure of our love somehow. We sit across each other for every meal and talk about things that make sense, everything and anything that can’t cause more harm than the things close to our heart have already done.
I feel the rustle of a world buried deep in me, he must feel the same. But the world that is lost and the hope that is no longer mine can only do so little. There is a happiness that doesn’t look enchanting. There is a kindness that isn’t grand. There are things only we can be for each others even if there are thousand things we can’t.
I would have told him “I love you” if I didn’t know how hearing these words have only made him cry. He lets me love within the boundary of my temperament and thoughts, he stands by these walls and knows why they are for.
In her loudest, happiest voice she told me about one of her near-death loves, how she wished her skin would stop keeping her alive. She laughed at how we both always find something awfully painful or ugly in common, how we should probably never call each other just to remind each other of the spite that lives in our blood.
I moved her lackluster glass of fake green mojito by an inch towards her and looked past her at the couple who sat closest to the sky. The wind that touched them called out to me again, reminded me about my trembling legs and my heart that didn’t want to give up yesterday.
I told her about the fall – my bad decision, my backing out again at the last minute- another really bad decision. I told her someone needs to lock me up before I take any more decision as I showed her my new skinned knee and told her in detail about all parts of me that were filled with pain even now only because of that one moment in which I wanted to live more than anything.
She walked towards the the railing decorated with hearts that won’t light and found herself a seat, placing her elbow carefully away from the mess that the ones in love left behind. She waited for me to follow her as I always do.
I stood behind her and felt a fear very similar to mine swimming in her mind. I wanted to tell her, it will get better. but I couldn’t. I wanted to believe in this, in this hope for better; if not for me, at least for her. And I knew she had nothing to say now because her throat was also crowded by the words she doesn’t believe. We are painfully alike even in our search for hope, even when we are searching it for each other.
I find myself trapped between forgiveness and frustration.
How often have I said that I want to be your strength. How easy it was to say it when I didn’t really know you or me.
But now when your breaking and my sadness is of your making I am fumbling for better words-
words that can show my heart that aches for you and because of you,
words that don’t forget or diminish your own hurt while talking about the parts of me that are finally dying after loving you for so long,
words that show my hatred for my brittle self, for my heart that is not big enough for real pain or real forgiveness.
Now I don’t know to talk about saving you, about loving you in spite of the demon you warned me about, the part of you that is stronger than me and you, together or apart.
As I kiss you I hear the other part of you digging playgrounds in rain, erasing you furiously from your skin, coloring each bruise with paint of happiness, clawing me, scaring me, making me scared for you.
As I kiss you I want to stand with you in your nightmare I want you to have someone beside you for once. As I kiss you I want to run far away from your world and forget this love.
“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.
The night doesn’t quite reach my land. There are columns and mountains of light that my people have given themselves to.
I never roll down my windows. There is a scent of death in the air. I don’t want to remember how burning is painful.
In my mind I run towards the memories of my perspective correction classes. I pick out a card, a line that works the most “burning is luminous”.
Yes, burning is lumious. Burning is magic, burning is beautiful. It is beautiful as long as I don’t hear the cries of one being burnt. It is magic as long as I don’t ask for confirmation of my worst fears being true from the others who never open their windows.
There is red in the news no one talks about, there is red in the names that disappear over night, there is red splattered inside the world in my head but the world is suspiciously clean even when all I smell is death.
When I close my eyes, it is never dark. Something burns before me, I am always aware of it. I wonder if I would ever know sleep again.
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.
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 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.
The soap slips through my fingers and falls onto the floor (a floor that in my mind is never clean enough). I wash the soap vigorously, till it becomes half of what it was. My teachers would be proud to know that I take germs somewhat seriously even now. Even now, when I am sure of only of my loneliness*, such ghosts of primary school science don’t leave me alone.
*My hands are too small, I have been told many a times. Maybe that’s why this happens so often. But still I guess it happens to all. I can never know for sure though. No one I have ever met talks of the soaps that slip. Maybe that shows the state of my friendships, how I end up feeling weird, feeling alone about the things, in experiences that are supposed to be normal and common.