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 covered up myself up- hiding the pieces, hiding the glue, hiding the knife close to my heart. There is too little time and so much to be disposed, so much has to be kept at the bottom of the stairs, under the sheets, under the hand that cupped my face so that no one could say with certainty whether I am laughing or crying or thinking about the hands that will never touch my face again or wondering why I can’t move away or keep away from mines and alligators and magma and my fearful heart and dark wells and palaces that never sink or get ruined completely and green roads of past and red destinations in my hands and love for colors that will not love me back and following the one with tearful eyes and the thoughts of some end, any end. All this extravagance, so that no one could see my see through my real feelings being eaten up by imaginary words and scenarios.
On a spread of fake smiling suns and the unreasonably happy flowers in pink, I kissed your smile without wondering what it meant for me in the long run. Without knowing if you would want me back the way I do.
And when you held on to me I didn’t know how to stop my violent tears or how to let you know how your embrace is the only thing that feels honest to my worn out heart or how precious this honest touch, this simple love is to a person like me.
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 heard her again complain about warm hands. A hand that remains warm, always warm, so warm that it almost becomes a fault, a flaw. That it turns into blame, into words that make no sense- “I could have loved him if he was not so good. Good is suspicious. Good is bland. Good is you when you try to be something you are not. He cannot know my heart, if he cannot be human enough to sin”, she said. I wonder why I never met them – the bland people who would be good for my heart, whom I seek in every hand I touch. Maybe I confused grand gestures, big promises, passionate gaze for goodness too many times. I wonder if it is just my weakness, my weariness that now wants someone harmless to live along with.
This where my moment of collapse, where my undoing starts. Me, sitting in front of something that I used to love, something that used to carry a part of me. Me, in front of bookshelves, looking at the list of movies that broke open my heart, moving my hands over the quotes that I took pains to scribble on everything I own, half-hiding behind the high dining tables, not really eating, not really listening, making cracks on my glass skin with the fork that has forgotten how food feels, hesitating to touch that reply button, hesitating to hold his hand. “i am empty, i can’t find in myself the will to love anything in this world”, I want to say. But it would be so unfair to break another’s heart, only because I have lost mine. But won’t it be equally unfair to give someone hope with my meaningless smiles.
when you slipped into my arms and tried to tell me stories in your broken language, when you got all your numbers wrong, when you touched my face with your tiny hands, i almost forgot that you are not mine.
I tell myself stories about why I threw away all that I had, or why everything was taken away from me. How I was too weak, will always be too weak to carry the weight of the gifts that I had. Or how I was never quite convinced that I had something to be proud of. How I was always trying to gauge how much deep my feelings ran for everything that I could only sort-of-love. I can list all similar attempts where I sought a better quantitative understanding of my specialness and used these unreliable results to decide how and when to give up. But if I had to give one consolidated story of why I was never a failure at anything, why I never succeeded, why I had nothing to show for the years I lived or for the talents that people remember me for. If I had to be concise and true I would say I never made those decisions, I was never aware of how I felt about all the things that bother me now. I drifted away from what I was, from what I treasured, the way dear friends lose touch, lose each others name, lose a happiness they could have had. Only to be reminded of this loss when it no longer matters.
I want to ask, “Does my love matter to you, when your love is all that matters to me?” But I don’t. What good is it, to hold onto such hope. How much could you love me? Already I dissolve in air the moment your eyes leave me, how can I let your lips touch my name? What will I do if I lose myself when I lose you one day?
But day by day, my fear to come closer to you and your unawareness of my wavering heart are becoming insignificant to me. It won’t be long before I forget the reasons I hesitated. It won’t be long before I get drunk on the future that I has not even started, before I realize that my biggest fear was not that I would be broken in your hands but that I would change even when I don’t want to, that I would forget how to love you and that you would be the one who ends up broken.