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.
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.
On Sundays, I wear the purple summer dress that I once promised myself I would never wear. I paint my nails, I color my lips, and I open the windows in me. I become someone I was taught to hate, I try to break my hatred with my smile. I let myself be reigned by the greed for beautiful, sweet, shining things. I think of all the things I have tried not to want. I let myself be the delicate vulnerable woman that is easy to love, easy to idolize, easy to abuse, easy to blame, and easy to hate. I tell myself that it is not my fault, but the more I live the harder it becomes to believe it. I fall asleep on the floor where first I tasted blood, wondering why I can never give up on this dress, this dream that has given me nothing but hurt.
All of us remember all the ways our bodies have felt small and vulnerable, open to destruction—like they are not ours at all, but objects for which we have to always be on the defensive, apologetic, abstractly and consistently afraid.
He had shrunk so much, so tiny, his eyes always remain almost closed. He cannot even sit up to eat, has no strength left. He cannot identify people, he’s calling out different people names in random way so much, that now people have stopped responding to his calls. He cannot sleep without pills anymore. Things were that bad.
When I saw him I thought of all that he had done for me when I was small. But these are things that I know, not what I remember. I know what he has done, I know what I should feel, but sadly I don’t .
If only I could feel and remember all that he was once to me, If only I could feel the love for him that he deserves. But it can’t be.
I see myself, sitting beside him on a chair talking random things to him, reading him stories, poems. That is maybe something that should have happened, probably happening in some parallel world but not here.
He is not that type of man, even if we assume that he was sane enough to be able to understand what I am saying. We were never on same page. Maybe we were, but something changed, that drove me so far from him, maybe I realized what he was, maybe I realized what I was, and realized things will never be same. How long can we pretend .
But when I saw him so weak, so powerless and vulnerable, I wanted to feel that love for him that I know wasn’t there in my heart.