My emptiness is finally put to use. The fishes swim in me – the luminous disfigured creatures of depth and the beautiful dying ones of light, fill me up one by one.
I teach them songs of sorrow. I hold them in my endless embrace singing them back to life and in return they let me feel like someone who can protect, love, and shield. They let me feel things no human ever could.
Even though I hate to be seen I smile as my body is put on display. My skin, the strongest glass. My skin, the weakest beams. The shallowest of oceans I become.
Humans hold hands, hold themselves as they stand before me. They find possibilities, mysteries, awe in all that I hold inside, in all that isn’t me.
Even in my nightmares I had a home, I had the warmth of my own love-yearning heart whose selfish haunting was more powerful than the sorrow of the world itself. Even when the night came and killed the song of every bird. Even when god abandoned my shadow, even as I dreamt the eyes I loved drowning in blood, floating towards my end. I could live, I could still write poems under the light of my pain.
There is an empty blue seat on the bus. You can always find them – the empty seats, they swim in abundance in front of your eyes when you have nowhere to go, no hurry, no person to reach. But to find them as you rush in and push past the people you don’t know holding the warmest hand in this world is a miracle I guess.
But today is not the day for a miracle. At least no old miracles are to arrive. The buses they rush past as if they have never known me, to be fair I don’t remember the buses like I remember people; to be fair roads are meant for the rush. But the cars don’t mean you, the slow bicycles don’t mean you; the buses that keep arriving, the last seat always empty- to be honest, even they don’t mean you. You are just dragged as an additional part as an extension to a feeling that once made me whole.
You are added as an afterthought. I only look for you in this world when I have no place to go, no one to blame, when no other reason comes to my mind for the reason my heart has grown cold, for my eyes seeking rain, when I see people sit back and look out from the window that once framed us as one. Without feelings, without missing anything, I think of you only to fill that space.
That feeling when something of this world rushes past you and you are nothing else for that moment but the afterimage of what has gone by, something that definitely was unlike your own self that never appears but only haunts.
I don’t know how people cope with that overwhelming storm of knowing the worlds that you can morph into and all the things that maybe you always were.
When you become a floating hat and its silent river, when you become the knob of the radio, the glass feeling the air before the snow, the shredded corners of a letter that weeps, the loudspeaker at the corner of the road with its abundance of sound and silence, the sundress peeled away, the flow of time and fate.
I don’t know what to make of this. I sit on tables filled with people who know a thing or two about life and they talk as if they have always been their skin, as if no one can be anything else but themselves. So I become the table feeling the soft elbows pushing down some loneliness with its weight. I become the napkin held in a fist.
I am now the sky looking down at me and now the child that I lost long ago. I am breaking and being taken over by all the beautiful lonely things. I feel I was probably made for this.
and when i come to meet you there are oranges buried in snow and grenades in fruit bowls. there is your smile that is locked in a room filled with flammables your new bedroom- you tell me as you turn away. i take steps towards this ruined shrine and a ghost, wearing all the dead roses of our world, holds a spear of your name against my chest. i step back and follow your cold body again through the corridors buried in rain. you stop suddenly and say something but miss it as i rush into you, through you, through the fragile wall and doors of another breaking dream and i am here again, alive and distraught under this comfortless ceiling of reality.
I have a thing about ends- I cannot do it, it has to be done to me. It must happen. Things must continue till they rot and bleed. First in places where no one can see and then in places where no one can look away from. And words must be said – cruel words. They must be said by someone, but it won’t be me.
I rush up to the jar of those colorful wrong words and choose first, all the words that seem like hope but they aren’t, while purposefully leaving behind in the hand of others only those words that seem like rage, but it is not, it is more of helplessness, but I do not tell them that. So now, in my tears they see the new monsters that they are made of, the monster I can’t bear to be.
Even as they become problems that they never wanted to be, I must remain good, I must remain kind. I must remain the one that held on. I must save my illusions at any cost. I won’t give the excuse of my weakness, of my broken heart, of the fragile thread from which my existence is suspended, of how I am already clawed open and torn apart by life, or how I would rather at the end of it want someone to hate than to mourn things that died with all the good parts of me. Or how I have always loved everything a bit too much. I won’t give the excuses even I cannot believe in.
I refuse to give up with spite and with malice even because how can I ever walk towards any goodness in world again knowing the feeling of the dying pulse of a miracle under my hands. I am ready to suffer. I am ready to break every heart including mine. I am ready to paint this world with monsters and be the evil one but I refuse to do that killing.
A crowd fills the river now. The winds wears new streamers, new sails today. There is a festivals of flower with a funeral of spring. There is something in the air that wants me to live, though there is something else in my heart that cries for an end. But the festivals go on and I keep walking in the crowd. I smile till I forget the weight of that smile. I keep walking till the crowd fills my heart, till I wear the world on me. Till I feel the hand of wind embracing me as if I am also one of its dearest kids. I am ready to give up my hate, I am ready to believe, I am ready to be good if I am held like that once – like I matter, like I have all that I need to live, like I can be loved and be hated and be nothing to someone and yet worthy of this world.
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.
I stand in the shadow of the great palms of the red tiles that grow out of its soul I stand watching the world go cold.
The broad roads of this city made of dust, the river made out the minds, out of dreams – this is my home, till I learn to break away from its spell.
My tongue feels heavy with the growing names I am supposed to learn, with all the things I must not be to be loved by them. I am almost expecting new things. “this is a good time to run away”, says my ghost-from-the-city-of-sea.
My ghost-from-the-mountains-green laughs at how desperately I want to be understood, to be seen and yet how furiously I try to erase everything of myself.
Everything in me seems to be made to be hidden. I hide my trembling fingers. I hide my desperation and the mess it leaves in its wake. I prepare myself for another show. The show of trying. My trying is so beautiful in how it is always hoping to be disappointed.
I wait under the neon signs of misspelled words and think about the storm that will never arrive. I wait with hope. I wait with arms fed up of trying.
Today I am glowing with your gentleness – the miracle that I thought was lost for good. Today all the songs are about the open sky of your heart, about the wind that blew through me to you, through the rooms of your childhood, through the ghosts in my eyes which you could see too, through your ruffling shirt made of bluest words enveloping me, making a new sun for me with the easy way you leaned in, with the kiss that reached me, even in all my hiding places. So sad no lips were involved, yet so beautiful that I can remember it without the memory and weight of flesh. It pains me somedays, somedays makes me regret all the things that vanished, all the good things that almost happened, but didn’t. But mostly it makes me proud that I used up all my beautiful dreams on you. Your smile, that I have never seen but only felt in words, was the most beautiful smile of this world. You were more dear to me than most of the world that I got to keep. How sad that I never got to tell you this.