so my blue dream is not even mine now. i am just a mesh of people who hate me. their fingers are my fingers now poking my skin, endless railroads of red are built with their nails that they do not even cut before they sell me their fake love-filled eyes. their eyes are my eyes that wants to smash every reflective surface where i fall. every reflective thought is just a poison. a poison, a gossip, an untrue version of me running wild in the minds of those who look at me. they gossip about me so i gossip about myself , whisper my secrets into the air or better, into the ears of lovers who are chosen especially for their talents in indifference, vulnerability, and emotional violence. lovers who can break me – are all that i want. i need someone else to do this breaking for me because i am coward who can’t move towards the end i want, and also because my hands are busy. i have more things to do. i need my hands to tear my talents apart in the name of value, tear my feelings apart in the name of my worthlessness. i need my hands to paint again and again. paint indifferences on my insecurities that come a bit too often to the surface of my skin now, paint laugh lines on the bleeding corners of my lips, paint dreams of love, moments of hurt, grand betrayals on my otherwise lonely mind, paint humans that match the shadows in me, painting causes and assurances. i must paint. i must paint a reason- a reason why i suffer so, why this world works like how it does, why i must break as the world breaks, why i must break even for fixing this world. i must paint a face so that others don’t break at the sight of my face. i clip my nails everyday so that when i become someone’s ghost when someone suffers because of me at least my hands won’t leave them scars.
“What do you know of prayers?” she asked, as she held my hands together within her own. I asked her “Don’t you know anything about me?” and there appeared another crack on her hands, there bloomed another rose in her hair there was another smile – the “looking down” smile, “you don’t know any better” smile, “you will soon thank me” smile, “I know you hate my smile” smile. I tried to imitate it, to drape it on my own face. Cause even if it didn’t seem like that, I loved her smile.
I stared at her smile wanting to save it somewhere in me. I stared at her small beautiful parts wanting to un-see the person she is in this moment. I am always trying to forget how suffocated these moments with her are. I am always trying to forget that with her words of love there was always a plea, a suggestion, a manipulation – to make me something like her.
Would it make me seem pathetic, petty, or romantic? if i called her a poison. Though everyone here is a poison, even me, but she is a poison for me, the only poison that works on me. The only one I didn’t want a death from. She tells me about another deity I will never believe in. She tells me a bit more about saving, about faith, about her own self that can never be broken, how even breaking can’t end her now. I wished she was right, I wished there would be never an end to her.
I wished for all kinds of ends for myself, even the ones without her. But in no version did I invent an agreeable version of her that will better for me. She has to be herself. Whatever that might mean for me. I wonder if there would come a day like that, a day when she would love me like that. Do I even want a day like that? Can I even tolerate a change in her? Wouldn’t that break me more than anything?
I get up and say something about “better things to do” and she says something about “the dangers to the faithless” and I can only smile for now at this weird, beautiful, messed up part of our life at our of differences, knowing of love, at our knowing of faith in different things that save us in their own ways.
I held onto my heart that wouldn’t stop running towards the possibility of love, towards you who smiled at me and yet never looked back. I held onto my heart, clawed at it, in fact. All because this role of wanting is an ocean of false memories and false hopes. This feeling of losing myself to something like love, someone like you, to everything out of my reach was wearing me down to a version of me I didn’t like. Wanting you has made me cautious, has made me aware of why I can’t be the one for you, why I can never be the one being loved. Wanting you makes me feel like I can never be happy again.
i remember your hands and their warmth like i remember the versions of me that were easier to live with (or so i think). the colors, their unnatural brightness, the scent of acetone always lingering on the tips of your fingertips, always hiding a sad rainbow (just my type). always a star that you forgot to rub and break, shined on your skin. under my lips, they shined brighter than my world. i swam to them as they stood in a world of darkness in the shapes of you and me. it is so odd that in my constantly breaking and building and growing brain and its images and meaning- everything about you meant love. i loved your flower hairpins and fake bullets and the magazines of the the people you would rather be and the window you glanced out of when didn’t want to look at me and your back against mine. it is odd that i could love you so even when i didn’t know why?
There are no dances waiting for us, no innocent moments of sunlight, no darkness or headlights striking our windows, nothing worth the wait. We are stranded here in this life. We are stranded on a planet far away from our home- a home that becomes more and more beautiful, the more we are convinced there is no way back.
Here the days are longer than our lifespan combined. Here we record 50 goodbyes to ourselves a day. The air, the hurricanes, the rain, the smile, this peace of mind are all just luminescent chemicals that delivers more than its promise of a near death exhilaration.
The rainbow of lies is our constant sky the friend we cannot live without. It is the only thing that helps us live with the dust of betrayal that settles on the clothes left out to dry- another thing we much dust away and forget, another thing we must do to be called a “good sport”.
I sit here knitting another version of my beautiful glorious past, another tribute to the world filled with rare ordinary and you sit across me complaining about what the world has come to as you paint my brain to match the new you- one less insecurity in this perfect world.
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully to the edge of the table, where your glass stands. At the edge where you place your suitcase, where you always tie your laces once again just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love when you think I might lend something of me to keep such place alive, to keep you warm while you keep the door open like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky, when your new birds keep singing songs of ‘soulmates’ with better specification when it becomes your new caller tune, when you think of the best version of your life. You think of that too often, quite loudly for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.” “i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“ “call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“ “call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“ “call me. meet me. i want us to end.“ “you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“ “you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself. i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything that I dangerously left at the edges just to be your equal, just to make sense of you- I am glad I have claimed back my madness instead of trying to understand yours. I am glad I do not have to live my life compensating for your weakness, calling it love.
From the corner of my eye I see you smile, I see it fade. I see you fade.
From the corner of my eye falls a tear, as I run into my mistakes, run into my cruel words, as I try to find you, in this place where you once lead me by my hand.
In every space, in every memory, in every version of our past where you promised you would always stay even if we part. You look a bit more tired. I look a bit more impatient. This is not the reality I lived. This is not the love I had.
Tell me, even if it changes nothing, tell me that I once had your heart, that there are moments you want to return to even when you don’t want me back.
Even when I insisted that I am fine without relying on you. Even when I tried to keep only my best version in your eyes. When I said I can solve my problems and if I can’t, I will learn to live with them; to never trouble yourself with what I suffer or how I suffer.
You told me I no longer have to live like this, to not fear dependence in love. You lied that I am no longer alone. You liked to be a promise and nothing more. You wanted to be believed as much as I wanted to be never hurt.
So this wingless me left my land to fly with you, to go to a place where you can breathe better. And you realized the effort it takes to carry another person pretty late. Now I am stuck in a cloud and you are somewhere in this vast sky. You can give me only few hours of your day. There is a life that is meant for you and I shouldn’t come in your way.
I live on such crumbs of you that my heart wilts one petal, one dream at a time. Love can now no longer live in a heart like mine.
I am not talking about
enhancing my likability here.
But just to be taken seriously
I need to like certain things,
I need to act certain way.
I need to fill forms
whenever I meet someone new,
whenever I meet them again.
Am I capable? Am I an intellectual (of the right kind)?
Am I still childish?
Am I still unable to follow the conversation
that is not spoken in the language I follow?
Am I still reluctant to give up on all the things
that are no longer relevant.
Am I now ready to listen and only listen
to take in
the version of a world that is more widely accepted.
Am I finally aligned with the opinions, interests
and common hatred that bonds us?
Have I grown weak and weary
of the silence that I am put through?
Have I realized what I could do, whom all I can befriend
if I break myself in image of my oppressor?
Sometimes the hatred, the bias that
people around him smoked
sticks to his clothes, his skin, his tongue
when I come near him.
He can wash it from himself with a sleep.
He can leave it at the door, when he steps in.
But I can’t wash it out of my mind.
In my mind
I mix up the person he is and the person he has to be.
But I realise that I do not know the person he is,
I only know the person he has to be for me,
I only resent the person he has to be for others.
The person he is, looks at me from his corner of eyes
and this stranger looks at me
not across oceans, not across roads of fate,
but across the versions of us filling up the space between us,
the versions we can never throw away.
This stranger looks at me and gives me the smile
that he has to wear for me.
For me to realise the love I have for the the days
I share with this person who spends his days with me,
loses his ways with me and grows old with me.
I smile back becoming the person I have to be for him,
becoming the version I love the most.