Sometimes when I forget to live, to see ahead, I find myself back again in the house of wood beside my child made of sand. He looks like me most of the days, sometimes she looks like him. They are often speaking like chorus of brokenness.
Some days they tell me that they are not mine, that they are not children, that I am not me. I ask them then why do I feel the way I do? why do I hurt the way I hurt? And hearing this they become the sand that I can only cry upon. They don’t come alive until another time.
But until that, I must be me, and see things not being themselves. The sand that was a life a second ago, it melts, it grows wings and opens its eyes and burns as sun.
Sometimes it opens it eyes and starts crying in my arms. It tears my skin, it makes me smile all my dying parts wake up but in a world where no such beautiful haunting exists where I have no reasons to cry only tears that never stop.
beauty may be only skin deep but lack of it goes deeper than that. so deep that you end up learning to want things that you wouldn’t otherwise even think about. i wish i could remember every face that was surprised to know that i am okay with looking older than i am, surprised that i do not want to exorcise fats especially when i have got so much of it. every morning i wake up they hover over me like faceless shadows with black markers, drawing over my body showing me all that is wrong, giving me tips so that i can become easy to look at, hiding their superficiality under the wraps of concern, whispering how thick-skinned i am when i don’t listen and wondering what is wrong with the ones who love me. it made me wonder that maybe going under the knife wouldn’t be as bad as being smeared black by markers. that maybe i am supposed to love myself only after the world approves of the ‘me’ that i want to love. i would have understood if they cared, if they actually meant good, but they don’t because they know nothing more than my name and they say my name only with heart-breaking adjectives and assumptions. i want to say they are wrong, but i have suffered their gaze for so long that sometimes i end up sharing their hatred of me, of what they see. there are days that i obsess over a passing comment. there are days i beat up myself for being like this. i starve and fail, i try to get over their words and fail, i try to hate myself and fail. i want to say it doesn’t matter but it does because i am tiring myself out by trying to see something good in me, by apologizing to myself, by trying to save my heart while they burn my body in the woods.