It snowed all night. All night I created stars for your eyes. I bore the weight of the roof as you slept, cried, ate, smiled, memorized dial tones, stared at me like you stare at screens with static, paused expectantly as you told me the story about your friend who is filled to brim with sugar and seems bit odd when he tries to smile a little bit more always, filled me with a momentary fear of whether you saw the corners of my lips tearing up everyday.
I felt again the illusion of love breaking, its crack trying to find my spine. Again you ran to me, trying to hold me, trying to look over all the parts of me that you don’t understand.
I slept and felt the snow of years settling on me. I felt your wings fluttering around in my head. I held the hands of god in my tiny fingers and said with a smile, “make me a flower, if you can” “make me something that is beautiful in her eyes” “give me another sorrow, something simple, something that can be understood and loved by her” “let me look at her, without feeling the breaking in my heart”.
The shoes I am wearing are wearing thin. I feel my clothes trying, trying hard to slip out of me and I don’t try to hold onto them. That is how I have always been.
I see an appproaching death, the sihouette of another ending that I won’t be able to take and I order another drink, I put down the book that was getting a bit more real that I expected it to be, and I wait with open eyes to witness the truth of every undoing that is in my fate.
This is me- the one who cries absurdly at a broken sole, at my frayed edges, at a day-long, a month-long, an year-short love, the one who tries to mean “till the end”.
The one who can only smile when called cruel and cold- that is also me.
I read about the life you left behind. About the days when love couldn’t protect anyone. Days when there rose a necessary evil in you. It seems once you were good enough to fall for the traps that I live in. I wish I had known the fragile you, but maybe it is all for the best, for my cruelty walks hand in hand with my love.
In your room, as you smile and joke about the tears you have hidden in your diaries, about the new hearts that you had to grow every year. As I peel off my makeup and my sarcastic words, I realize that I am about to fall for you (probably for all the wrong reasons).
Though I might not have been looking for someone sad to love, but ‘not having to explain’ helps. It helps that you, like me, know and understand that showing wounds sometimes hurt more than getting them.
Any seat that I was comfortable occupying was always unbearably cold. People were right when they said that something was not right with me. For my flesh wanted to become fresh snow, my bones the lone tree under which sat my soul- a child learning to count the years of cold and whiteness, an innocent, forgetful, and aging brain living in a world with no song, no spring, no rain, to remind of all that is lost.
I tell myself stories about why I threw away all that I had, or why everything was taken away from me. How I was too weak, will always be too weak to carry the weight of the gifts that I had. Or how I was never quite convinced that I had something to be proud of. How I was always trying to gauge how much deep my feelings ran for everything that I could only sort-of-love. I can list all similar attempts where I sought a better quantitative understanding of my specialness and used these unreliable results to decide how and when to give up. But if I had to give one consolidated story of why I was never a failure at anything, why I never succeeded, why I had nothing to show for the years I lived or for the talents that people remember me for. If I had to be concise and true I would say I never made those decisions, I was never aware of how I felt about all the things that bother me now. I drifted away from what I was, from what I treasured, the way dear friends lose touch, lose each others name, lose a happiness they could have had. Only to be reminded of this loss when it no longer matters.
that I can’t read
is not abandoned on the shelves
has not been moved to the lowest rack
because it is bad.
But because so much of me
is filled in it.
So many words from my heart reside on those pages,
that I am bound to question
if this is the reason I felt so empty for years.
Someone sat up all night
looking into me,
taking away my pain and shame
to relieve me of this weight.
But ended up taking more than they should
and didn’t know any other way
than to send it back to me in a book.
I wish I could go out
and burn every copy of this book
in every bookstore on earth-
this book that I can’t read myself.
But I must keep it with me always
so that if I am silenced forever
even after I leave
at least someone
would see that I tried
when they open this book
and see the crossed out names
replaced with mine.
I didn’t see her pack her bag
but I knew it was definitely hers,
from the way she could drag it with such an ease.
The same ease with which
she dragged most things in her life.
Her face twisted and moved
till it found that smile
that said, “Ignore me, I’m happy”.
As she hailed her taxi,
I tried to count the days it would take
for me to give up too.
I counted the roads that must pass
before we do not have to think
about the depleting years in our hand
and lonely dreams in our diminishing vision.
There are moments of indifference
that once piled up
seems more than the years I have lived.
There are too many memories
where I cannot see anyone but myself
running around in a dark cave
afraid of everything I bump into.
Not knowing that even if I shout
if anyone would hear,
sometimes fearful of who might hear me.
And even though
you are out of your cave
and I am out of mine.
Now when we can see all the things we couldn’t.
Now when we can really see each others scars.
Now when we have the luxury to know each others pain.
it is better to pretend we are still in our caves.
For too many things have been done,
too many words have been said.
And we do not remember answers to question
that we wanted each other to ask.