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.
sometimes i dream of emptiness – it looks festive and grand, it looks like people rushing in with their wants and talks about wants and talks about not having their name in any list of wants and talks about wants that they saw the other say that they just couldn’t wrap their heads around and talks about wants that didn’t last that long and talks about wants that don’t seem to die and someone wanting to burn some wants cause they just can’t stand them, cause they just can’t stand a world that is not filled with their lookalikes and someone wanting to become a 24×7 monsoon, so that such an anarchic want can never see any fruit and then 100 people enter a room which only has room for 10 they are torn between killing other 90 or making the room bigger by bulldozing the rooms around, some have already started to eat less and breathe less and want less so that they take up less space, cause nothing seems to be working, they sometimes talk about wanting back the past, wanting back the limbs and heart that, they realized too late, won’t grow back and the room is now bigger where 100 people are now 10000 people and the other rooms and other worlds are now floors the people with better and certified normal wants walk upon and some keep digging for the ones that are buried, for the ones that still can be saved, they keep getting arrested and get locked up in cells that have always room for more and things like that just keep happening- hurtful things, beautiful hurtful things, ugly hurtful things. and my eyes see only wants and hurts and i am not sure if it is a good thing or a bad thing that i can’t see another human in sight.
Slowly I plucked each tooth of mine, I tore my tongue out and he called me beautiful.
He called me beautiful so I left my clothes roll down. I let my skin, my guards, my skeleton touch his floor. I sat there watching him build a fire out of it all. The fire was too cold for me so I didn’t smile.
He told me he only speaks the language of rough, that his heart beats and falls slower than the rest. I told him I have known many like him. I told him I didn’t mind. He seemed to mind that a bit but he also seemed to be a bit relieved.
As I sat under the the waterfall of his blue curtains, I felt thousands of eyes at my back, behind windows that couldn’t be closed. There were always windows behind my back anywhere I sat from the day I was first told that I was the type of beautiful not worth keeping and staying around.
Those eyes filled with lust, question, resentment filled with hatred, filled with violence, filled with sweet words for my ailing heart, filled with knives for soft skin, for the right time, were my burden so I knew at least this was not his fault.
I asked him what he could give, what he could make me forget. He didn’t answer and seemed a bit lost. I wondered if he also couldn’t think or speak clearly, if there were eyes on his back that he never spoke about.
Are they finally drowning? The sails, the flags, the songs the party, and the expensive backless silks. The rings and guns and blood shining. Always shining. They are finally coming for us. We will again have someone’s face in front of us at least for a while and we will sing songs that they have no choice but to listen to. The cries and shrieks and the stories that we had saved in us will not go waste.
They have not yet seen us rotting feets and feets below them but somethings take time. The water will fill them but they will never grasp the slow violence and its finality. They will look above at the lost sky, they will not know what they are looking for as the concepts of hope and god and saving becomes grayer in their head. They will keep struggling feeling all promises becoming breathless in them and they will miss the point of saying goodbye. We always do.
Darling, they are coming our children, our neighbors, our dear strangers, our ministers, our wood, our sky, our eyes, our new memories. Now we can die together and actually die and not be haunting blue in this green ocean. I missed living dear but I missed them more – everyone, everything taken away from us. We have waited patiently, wishing them life. We have prayed for them to stay away from wherever we are. But now they are coming and I cannot help but selfishly smile at seeing everything coming back to us.
on the mud stains of a size 7 shoes swimming on the white floor of my small apartment.
in the plants uprooted, in the marigolds strewn and trampled on, in the light that smiles nonetheless.
on the streets where lives my fear – that finds me and almost kills me, every time i hear footsteps behind me.
on the patronizing attitudes that i dutifully respond with gratefulness. on the potential dangers, the possibilities of violence that every intimacy invites. on the things i say yes to with a breaking heart.
in the mirror that only prizes my delicate frame and my weak wrist, that tells me i would at least beautiful in the missing posters, in the files housed in grim police stations, in the videos and photos i would never get to know of (if i am lucky)
in the speeches that tell me i am safe in the compartments and corners made for me. soundproof corners where either i would finally end up believing the facade, the lie of a safe world or where i would learn how to stay silent to be spared the worst.
The dead world lives through her. Her escape is a door left open for the violence to spread, or so she always believed. When she saw someone who reminded her of love, saw that the fragile bird of happiness would choose sit by her window and wait for her to sing back, when all that could make her feel safe and somehow better smiled at her and asked her name. She would remember how from her skin and her mind grew trees of fear every night. The flood that has left her land loomed above this forest. Anytime the cloud would burst, the past would burst through her smile, and all would be lost. Today, tomorrow, day after, on an afternoon when she would forget about it all, on a beautiful day like that she knows she will find sorrow again. So she stays quiet and writes a softer tragedy of a girl who could never tell her name to anyone who chose her hoping for happiness.
The sandstorm is just another setting for this story to continue. There are no trees in our desert that could be broken. There are only lights that learn to flicker, there is only skin that knows what this wind carries, there are only roads that will drown.
With half closed eyes you walk out to search for what you have left behind. With half closed door I wait for you to return. I find another quote in another book foretelling the loveless life that will continue henceforth. Another book, another friend I must burn for speaking the truth, for wanting my best.
I am destined to die on the night of a full moon without a reason, without a witness, with a piece of broken mirror becoming a new part of my body- another prophesy that I wish you had not gifted me.
Three fairies sleep in our bed, who do not yet know the violence of your broken heart. I hope you get what you cry for, I hope you forget our names, I hope this storm saves us from every moon, every sky. I hope this storm saves us from you.
The wind is picking up. The white sand unlike water sinks everything too slowly. And so the shade less trees of eucalyptus become shadows that I learn to love. They become compass that knows no direction, but just piece this world to hold, the silent assurance that I am not yet lost, though my eyes can’t tell.
The wind is picking up. In the middle of this small storm, my careful hands writing the date on black board suddenly realize the need to be held. And so I fold and create a crease on another part of my face- the part that shows my heart too easily. Someone yells out my name and unknowingly they moor me to another violence, another need that I don’t want to carry in me.
the doll with black buttons eyes – i can be that, if you also don’t mind being one. we can sit under the shade of broken wooden chair. we can call this air-conditioned room our world. the ring on your finger will longer fit you, these bruises will finally leave your life. we can wear dresses that carry no scent of rain. and we will stay forever as girls without love, girls without heartaches to cure.
I looked up at the confused giants
and puzzled at their ugly voices
and deformed faces,
how they hold onto stones and branches
how they hold onto papers,
and threw each other off cliffs.
But what made me sadder was
that no one who was thrown off those cliffs ever died.
They just keep coming back
looking a bit different, speaking more funnier
and acting more mean
and throwing each others down again.
No one ever died here.
Everyone lived and everyone wanted all this to end
but no one wished it more than me.
I was made to believe that the little blood I have in me
is their doing, is their gift.
I wonder how much time it would take
to empty myself from the traces of this violence
and memories of people I grew up calling my family.