It is time to go out into the world.
It is time that I try hard to get my heart broken
and pretend that it is happening for the first time,
to claim that I trusted blindly
knowing it is not something I am capable of,
to fit my body awkwardly
in the kind of life that people call ‘life’
to find words, to practice the new lingo
that can make something about me relatable,
so that my skin soaked in a tiring tale of sadness
doesn’t make me an alien,
to fill me up again with pictures
of parks, cafes, malls, and roads filled with people
who supposedly like each other,
if not a lot,
then at least enough to not let their ailing self
ruin the perfect moment, the perfect teamwork, the perfect promise.
(Perfection that relies on someone else
doesn’t sit well with me.)
It is time I find something new
that I cannot be or cannot have
before I lock myself up again
for next hundred heart years.
So while I am out to find something to write about and hurt about
miss me my cell,
pray for me.
I am afraid that once I am surrounded by all
that I have learned not to want,
I might start to hope again.
I might slip again.
I might forget to see the distance that I carry in me
and get disappointed by the doors that I can’t reach.
i did all that i must do
and now no one asks me what’s next.
no one burdens me with with their dreams anymore.
i am no longer a possible candidate for the worst,
for taking over the misfortune of my mother’s life.
i no longer have to worry about hurting my parents by
being like them or living like them.
what bothers me, what eats me up
is nothing that would keep anyone else awake
and that is important.
in spite of this emptiness i write about
and this loneliness that seems bigger than this world,
all this do not stop me
from laughing at jokes, craving for food that i shouldn’t eat,
dreaming of another broken love with my only lover,
from having a good time – that i will conveniently forget.
nothing i cry about, no ailing that lives in me
is too large to stop me from living.
i guess i carry an instability in my genes.
if my eyes are in the color of sadness,
i guess i got it from my parents.
and they are lovely people who somehow raised me right
in spite of having a tendency to mess up things
and their sadness with life.
tomorrow i will probably hate them frequently again
but they will nag at me when i reach home drenched in rain,
will tell me sit straight and force me to eat what will keep me alive,
will ask me to keep my phone down,
and sleep a little bit more.
they will not ask what’s wrong and that will disappoint me,
but they will let me do what i want to do (sometimes)
and they will try their best not to wrong me.
they will wish for my happiness,
even if they have no idea what makes me happy
and that is important.
because though i lived my extended teenage
believing that i had no one,
but it was not true.
i saw no one
and it is my fault.
even when i thought i was not loved
they have loved me silently.
though it was a tiring love,
it knew no end.
Once we are done with the ritual of tea,
as I leave the room with his cup and mine,
I leave behind my shadow with him.
That is his favorite part of his evening
and he is all too happy to talk to a quieter me.
He feels my shadow is somehow better than me.
He finds it more understanding
and more similar to the feminine company
he always wanted in his life.
Someone who knows how to listen,
and who knows when not to think.
Someone who would look up to his words
with the certainty of truth
and would be the first one to realize his specialness.
I can understand where he comes from,
it is tiring to impress everyone all the time
fearing when we will falter, when we will fall in their eyes.
I can understand, even when I don’t want to,
for even I have wished for the same things
that only an imbalance of power or naivety of a lover
can give me.
I always had a sense of entitlement
when it came to dreaming of a lover.
That there would be someone
who puts me first.
But I realized with time
sometimes you have to be that someone
who puts others first.
That was such a terrifying and distressing thought.
And suddenly all these heroes
became somewhat out-of-the-world, larger-than-life
someone I can never be.
To realize the pain
it must have taken
to scrap down their lives
for the sake of a person
whose love can’t be trusted or guaranteed.
How one must endure their own foolishness.
How one must look away from our own self.
Knowing all the while
that all this, built
can be broken in no time
with one word of hers,
that can end your suffering
and renew your struggle.
That there is no way out.
or to leave.
And to suffer each minute
no matter what you choose.
It seemed so tiring
It seemed so cruel
to ask someone for that.
The wind chimes on television
seem so beautiful,
sound so soothing.
But I had a wind chime
that never made a sound.
There was never a wind around my house
at least not the one that pleased my wind chimes.
The occasional wind will touch my cheeks
but never the edges of the shining metal.
It never made the song that I longed for.
It made me feel
that my life was more stagnant
than it really was.
The only time it made a sound
was when my hands played with it.
But it was tiring
and it never quite sounded the same.
It never sounded like
the wind chimes on television.