I crawled to the window in my dress torn by the claws and cries of people who live in my nightmares. They like clean living rooms, dark courtyards, and cars with slashed tires sitting in their garage. They have “broken hearts” written down in forms as their identity and broken chandeliers swept under their bed. They crouch down and look at me as the broken lights shine red, as I see myself bleed beautiful rivers, as my silent scream become winds, become ripples, becomes the face that will forever make me cry. They smile and ask me “What do you wish? How do you want to be saved?” while someone else burns the bed that I am crushed under and asks me “Is this the what the warmth felt like in your mind?” They drag me out into a forest, where under the brightest tree of hope, they stuff darkness into my throat, into my mind and ask me “Do you still feel empty?” They are unreal and of unsound mind. They tell me living in me makes them so. They wave goodbye to me with a smile, offering me a sweet candy for my silence and understanding It is raining when I open my eyes. I breathe in the world where bleeding and burning is irreversible, where it would lead to an end of some kind. I crawl to the window in my torn dress and my exhausted skin and find myself staring at people who used live in my nightmares, people who look more real that the living me. People who now own more than just my dreams.
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.
I am told I am not wise, that I do not have the intellect that could make anyone swoon over me. I try too hard, put too much effort to be considered worth protecting. I rank even lower on the stats of beauty. I know that since I have found discarded papers written by boys-who-will-always-be-boys who document my plummeting desirability religiously. But since I am not the type to conform (tsk tsk…so many vices) I cannot help but choose to take on the role of the bitter girl and judge in my mind everyone who cruelly prosecutes me in jokes and harmless fun in my absence, but are kind enough to leave behind enough clues for me to figure out where I must stand in this world.
It has become my habit to consider them desperate, manipulative and not worth my time or attention. I know now, how to look down on everyone who looks down on me. It’s a wonderful feeling really. To feel like a flawed monster with some control. To be free from the want to be understood by the “cool” people. To stop expecting for things to change. I have enough paranoia and enough stubbornness to last this lifetime. I have enough reasons to hate passionately all those who hate me. I may know too less about life, I may underestimate the phrase “but-tomorrow-you-might-need-them” but I cannot turn my other cheek and I cannot let myself want to be a friends/minion of theirs. My heart may be dissolving in my own acidic hate for this world But at least I know I took on my own side in all my fights. I may not expect much from world, but expect a lot from myself. This is the bare minimum I can do to preserve myself in this world that changes everyone in the name of fun.
“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 think of the clothes that are too tight or too loose for me, of my skin that doesn’t like me the way it used to. How the mirrors in my home are hidden by the growing towers of books. I wonder what this says about me? I think of the fear that I feel when I am alone, the fear that I feel when I walk into happiness. I think of the kinds of fear that fill my heart. I count them for a long time but nothing happens when I finish counting. I wonder if knowing myself is really the first step to solving my life. Do I want anything to be solved? I count the people that who no longer speak to me and half way through I remember that it was me who had thrown them away first. Silence is my weapon, not theirs. I realize I need to always hold a grudge against someone to live with strength. I wonder when this strength became so important to me. I wonder when this love that felt like a lemonade in summer actually became a commercialized product with an expiry date stamped on it before it even reaches our hands. I think of my skin by which I am stuck to a world like this. I wonder why I pretend to be better than this world by saying such stuff? Why am I so into acting all deep and philosophical? I wonder why I love to call myself broken even though I hate to be seen so? Don’t misunderstand me. I do not want answers. Answers are painful and pointless, answers are a tasteless end to the struggle that otherwise makes my heart bleed colors.
you are now just a butterfly in the unruly garden of my life.
you were once the laughter in our home. your hands were once as warm as mine. you were so many things, the one who knew how to make everyone smile, the one who could soothe my heart with a kind understanding glance, the one who never cried (now I guess you must have cried, knowing how you left us here like this).
they told me you were too weak to live. i gulped down their answer even when i knew they were lying. i was afraid of knowing the real reasons, i was afraid of knowing what I had overlooked.
the soil was so soft in my hand, the day they buried you. i cried through my meals for days. no one consoled me. no one told me things will get better. no one told me to grow up. and something told me i would never grow up.
now come here, come inside and cry how much ever you want. we don’t want the neighbors to know how much worse we are doing than them. trust me dear, it does no one good if you go around with these puffed eyes and cracking voice.
you know, these days it is not wise to act out frustrations you never know who is idle enough to observe us and label us as another example of a failed generation, a disappointment, write an article on how luxury has spoiled these children, that we are just a bunch of aimless attention seeking humans who refuse to grow up, that we are weak to indulge in something so petty. they will hand you the list of people who are doing worse (i have plenty of those stuffed in drawers, just in case if you are curious to know what it says)
i know nothing is right but it will be. we will make it right but till then do not wait for kindness, do not expect understanding. if you get them be grateful, but don’t wait for someone to come and pick you up. we will make through this not because we are strong enough to face all this but because this is not the first time our lives are wrecked by these unacknowledged pains. like always we will break ourselves and grow smaller in our attempts to grow up.
Excuses are futile, reasons unnecessary. You may have sad story but who doesn’t. I don’t want to know what you went through. I don’t want to melt my indifference and disregard and become the only character who suffers for their understanding. I don’t want to be that lone person who considers even small actions so that the ones who are already hurt, don’t break on their watch, don’t die on them.
But it is difficult to be kind to the ones who end up living for their pain, who think their pain makes them special, who would do anything to keep their status of the ones needing protection. It is tiring to continuously ache for others. It is tiring to see everyone walking back to their mistake in the name of love, in the name of passion. Don’t tell me about your sadness and worries. Don’t ask me for support and advice. I cannot forgive those who return to the normality of their hell leaving me as the only one who should have known better than to help those who can’t make up their mind.
I tell myself that I have nothing worth saying and that no one wants to listen. I know this because I have tried to speak my mind and in best cases I have been told that my mind is not that right, that the experience that I speak from doesn’t exist for them, so they will unanimously refuse to acknowledge my narrative. Or they will smile at me and look down at me. But I am not their adorable kid who had got her alphabets mixed up. I am a person equal to them, and my level of ignorance is equal to them even if it is not about same things.
I am a person equal to them. I am a person equal to them I am a person equal to them… I have to keep repeating it or else I might just forget. Maybe I have already started to forget because these days I speak in small sentences, waiting for affirmative nods. I find myself reading everything that they will approve of. I find myself voicing what they want to hear. I see myself calling myself stupid before they call me one. I see myself nod understandingly at everything I disagree with. I hear the arguments inside me against the favorite opinions of everyone and they stay inside me, and everyone is happy.
“You are too young to know better, to know reality. You are too girlish to see the world for what it is. You are too sentimental to speak logically.” I know the wall of judgement I will run into if I let myself speak.
So you may actually want to listen and you might not be like others. But I can’t bring myself to speak about what matters to me. Cause either I will be wounded at my weakest spot or I will end up hating you just for being like everyone else when you ridicule me, interrupt me to correct me and try to tell me what I should be feeling instead. I won’t give you a chance because I can’t take chances with our friendship. I won’t speak up because I don’t want to feel more inferior than I already do.
That day when it rained of
bruised and dying birds
of feathers marked with colors only
an arrogant and confident cruelty can cause,
everyone looked about for an umbrella
to protect themselves from this vision
that they didn’t want to witness.
This was not the historic moment
that they wanted to be part of.
I could understand their willingness to believe
that the marks of fingers in the blood and bodies
that filled up the roads
can be called natural causes.
It was probably better
than knowing the names of people whom we may have laughed with
only to know they know how to fly,
how to clip wings and suspend the decaying bodies in air
while we asked them the directions for our life,
while we asked them to tie up our laces as a child,
while we asked them to love us, and build a new life.
I guess even the innocent
got fed up of being looked at like a potential danger
or tired of looking for one.
It was probably more convenient to come to an understanding,
of agreeing on a made-up fact
that this all is part and parcel of being a bird in the sky,
that birds should know better than to fly,
and tempt innocent humans into life of crime.
Birds at their best should just chirp joyfully
and let everything slide.