the one thing i can’t be is honest. though there are many other adjectives that stare at me from their balconies at midnight as i walk and crawl through the dirt road, through the pool of lights, crying and shouting and breaking dreams in every home that i pass by. i hear them shaking their heads with disapproval and hopelessness. i look at their hazy shadows and try to hate them in equal measures but i don’t because they are so easy to forget. but this honesty, this honesty that people expect vexes me. this expectation makes me want to hide, run, run over their hearts all because it is so simple. all because the ones who ask me of this through their tears are not mere observers but are the ones struggling to stay close to me fighting the unnecessary sandstorm i create everyday. they are the ones who deserve honesty. they are the ones i don’t deserve. but my dishonesty is not only for this world. it is the only thing i can offer to myself as well. so again, i wake up in their arms with another lie ready on my lips. i hug them with with my true love and my false heart. i don’t try to make it right when they are in shambles again because there is no fancy way to put it, there is no beauty in what i do, there is no promise i would keep. there are only people who i leave. even when i can’t bear to miss one more person again.
She told me I feel like frozen tulips and I do not know what she meant by that. She never talks of flowers or future or what I might be in this world by myself or by her side. So we pretend such words were never said. We pretend that the meaning we give to each other’s words are true and real and the only meaning we need.
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart. they see through you. even when they say hello they almost get your name wrong, you can tell it from the look in their eyes. they drink and fill every room with songs that were not so hard to bear when they were just noises that radio made. they tell you in their drunken stupor that no one cares.
they say no one cares even when you call the cab, drag them home, hurt your hand in the struggle, scrape more than skin, lose more than patience, leave them on a bed not made for weeks probably, you don’t want to guess or know. so you close the door, climb down the stairs shut down the part of mind reserved for them, but remember how they have been liking and sharing too many dark poems, how those poems speak in their voice in your mind. so you climb back, remove every blade and knife and realize it is just the beginning. you feel exhausted by the inexhaustible list of things that can help end a life, that can serve as a full stop.
so you sleep on the couch or pretend to, till your head hurts from pretending. now that you want something true you call your love and tell him that you don’t know how to handle this, how to sleep and yet keep an eye on the one whom you suspect is waiting, waiting for you to close your eyes for a second to make an exit that doesn’t exist. he tells you that they are beyond hope at the same time he forwards articles that could give you hope. he tells you to sleep tight knowing you won’t.
when you wake up at the sound of tears being microwaved for breakfast, you see another day that won’t be right. you see them trying not to break yet breaking and abandoning everything around them so that their hurt can be felt by the world. they look at you and smile while they pour another glass toasting “another drink for the world that doesn’t care, another drink for the loveless me.”
the broken-hearted know no love for anything or anyone that is not the one breaking their heart.
“I can’t leave cause I am broken. No one would take me now. No one should have to make do with someone left behind.“ But its your voice that says all this. Your voice is stronger than mine. Yours is the only voice that I have.
The hope of a miraculous understanding has so far proven to be my weakness, a word that makes me give up and resign far too easily. “Do what you want. I have no choice but to love you. Or else I might end up hate myself as well.“ That’s what the hope of understanding makes me say.
I have been hearing voices speaking of everything that is true. I have been seeing the places we’ll end up even if we continue. Every medicine, ever distraction brings me guilt of looking away from you. So the easiest way to live with you is to console myself. I console myself everyday with the message of imperfect love, with the sight of imperfect you.
i crawl into another embrace, scratch the surface of my fake love to find something true. hopes. hopes. is this what they call hope? it must be.
the coffee turns cold as my story ends. again i am wearing a skin i have stolen. the one breathing beside me has a knack for sad stories recited by happy girls, of being a knight to one he doesn’t have to save.
me, i love drowning the world in sadness (the only way i can take anyone’s breath away) i love leaving loose ends, leaving people behind- i call it the fear of being left behind. i have a list of similar innocent motivation for every mess i make, for the mess i have become.
when he leaves i throw away the coffee he never drinks. i get over my urge to be seen for what i am. i dip my fingers into another color that he might like, or at least remember.
i do not want to be a child who thinks that the world is this window where i wait for you to return. but i am.
and you are also the one who has promised to never return. but you have made many promises and you have broken so many of it. i guess i am counting on you to stay true to who you are and break another one.
i have done well on all my exams. i have cleaned my room. i have eaten all the greens. you will be able to love me now.
they say you found love late and the ones in love never return to the loveless families they want to forget. have we been forgotten? are we your embarrassing childhood photo?
mother cries a lot these days and so i can’t cry anymore. i can’t cry anymore and i hate you for taking away my tears.
As they casually made a remark about my incompetence, I found I hated them more than I should. Even if all their words were true, even though I was lacking. I wanted them to speak well of me. Not only speak well of me but to think well of me.
I never realized that they loved everything I pretended to be and mocked everything I truly was. I thought they would see past the ugliness of my words and understand how much I struggled to be myself. Did I want too much?
As they leave for the day, I smile.
Try my best to be the fake that they love so much,
try my best to never be myself.
As they leave,
as my heart tries not to break,
I ask myself,
How long can I love someone
who never saw anything in me worth loving?
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.
From the day that I resolved
to create a door in my life
for you to move out me,
to forget you,
to even hate you, if it becomes necessary.
I thought resolve was all I needed
to get rid of the poison that you had become,
to create space for myself to grow into,
if I had to grow without love or understanding anyway.
I sorted myself and my memories
keeping only the ones that would help me
convince myself that you were bad for me,
that your love could blossom only
in the season of your selfishness,
the season where I was expected to wilt for your sake
and smile when you called it love.
I tried to remember
everything that I read in your mannerisms everyday,
everything I had overlooked as visions caused by my paranoia,
everything that came true,
everything that would have been true, only if I had let you.
I know that you were not evil,
but only human.
I know that I may have made you bleed
more that I can admit.
But I am also only a human.
Maybe I could have accepted your human nature
if my weakness, my complexes, my cruel words
could have been understood by you as well.
At some point
there was nothing you could do for me
than to remind me of my monstrosity everyday,
than to wait for me to breakdown.
At some point
there was nothing that I could do
than to walk away
and try to hate you.