. When the pain hits my face
. (those hands used to the have the softest touch)
. my skin would have broken up in the ugliest ways,
. if the same hands wouldn’t have rushed
. to cradle the crying me
. without losing a second.
. The pain was gone as soon as it came.
. This skin has a way of healing
. that seems to me as
. an unfaithfulness,
. a betrayal.
. As if, even my body
. didn’t want to leave any evidence
. that could justify my tears and my mistrust.
. I have again invited the pain, the consequence
. of being “broken too many times”.
. The word “broken”
. seems like a shiny ornament
. that is meant to distract my eyes,
. my eyes
. that are anyway not capable
. of seeing things for what they are.
. I no longer trust my mind
. that doesn’t know
. the reason for the anger (that I awakened in others),
. the disappointments
. written in neon lights on the darkening faces,
. that doesn’t have any account of how I ended up becoming
. a person
. this bad, this wrong, this fragile, this cruel.
I try to take out this poison
of my thoughts
drop by drop from my blood.
My blood, that doesn’t want to be red.
My thoughts, that don’t want to be rational.
My pain, that doesn’t want to dull.
And the more papers I fill,
the more I am convinced
there is no other way I could live.
That I am surely escaping my end
by keeping my sobs on different lines,
on different pages.
By dividing the oceans, the sorrows
that were intent on drowning me.
I have not known
what it is like
to stop looking for ways to prove
people and their minds
as the root of my the problems.
What is it like
to stop hurting others,
thinking everyone out there
has something against me.
What it is to undo the harm
of many many hands.
What is it like to help someone forget
the pain of living.
The strip of land
that lies in the midst
of the blue of our minds.
shall we sit face to face and talk.
We could talk of many things
you could tell me
how your hands throw away
every trinkets and prize,
only because they don’t feel as
you thought they would in your hands.
How they are too heavy on your soul
that doesn’t want to be dragged down.
How they are just things that can be lost
and are found again and again
by hands that will surely loose them again.
And you don’t actually care where they end up.
I could tell you
of my world
where all of these cold things
that your hand detest
have kept me alive,
where my hands brush away
care of others
because I am calculating
which piece of myself I would have to give away
as the cost of the kindness.
(Yes, every kindness has a cost,
even if it is never demanded.)
Because everything that has a warm heart
has a furnace of fire inside
that burns everyone equally.
But I am here sitting opposite you
and I am ready to get my heart broken.
Trust me when I say-
It takes a lot to break me.
And only when it comes to you,
I am not looking for an easy way out.
He sat down and decided to write a list
of all the things he had lost.
He decided to look for them.
He decided to find them
the same way the dreams of past had found him.
He put his pen down
and stared at the wall ahead,
stared till his eyes would hurt
as much as his heart does.
He cried whole night
for he couldn’t remember
even one thing that he had lost
and couldn’t understand
why the shelves in his heart
He didn’t know how to search for them.
He didn’t know where to start.
All the bits of you
the pieces of trivia,
that will never be asked anywhere,
you handed it to me-
on our way to work,
in your sleep,
in your half-audible mumbling
while you brushed your teeth.
I thought they were too much
than what I can hold,
I kept them in pockets
of any cloth that I had on me.
And after all these years
when I look for them,
just when I found my memory lacking your presence,
they were nowhere to be found.
So as you decide on what to eat
I ask you again as I often do,
about one small irrelevant fact about you
that I will soon forget.
Even on this side of the mirror,
in the world of shining surfaces
and sharp and dissolving images,
I have found myself
looking for clues of this fabricated world;
of trying to look for a secret trapdoor
and hidden rooms,
for a way out of here.
Not thinking even once what it meant
to be out of this world.
And even if I make it out
that world that my heart can hold
can it witstand the touch
of a person made of light and glass?
No great escape.
No new world, no new word,
can make me more real
than the image I am.
The small crises
of my day-to-day life that
seem like disaster,
were nothing more than
my heart rebelling against my heart.
Of me fighting myself,
Of me looking at myself,
mocking at myself,
crying with myself.
Of accepting the solitude I had subjected myself to.
Of not knowing a way out of it.
Of thinking that if I could be miserable enough
someone might rescue me.
And finally accepting the life
I have shared with no one else
The table is set before us.
The lights from a far away sadness
finding its way
to our faces,
that seem too empty without it.
There are friends
holding glasses filled with whatever
helps them forget their hope.
Nothing hurts more than hope.
For this hour
the ache of our heels
and the weight on our eyes
are replaced with something
smaller and innocent,
something more painful.
Like a snow globe filled
with broken promises.
And we all become kids,
who are still waiting for the presents
of a Christmas marked on calendars lost.
Sleeping on beds that are too small for us.
Holding onto wishes that really doesn’t matter now.
Nothing hurts more than hope.
Have we wandered too far away
once lived our dreams?
It’s a long walk
and dark thoughts chase me
on this sunny day.
Smile at me once more.
So that I know there is not only one place,
not only one way to dream.