Flooded

You feel like you understand the insides of humans on screen just because you stuck up your nose so very closely and breathe together with them inside two wildly different spaces

Let’s go fishing in the harbour to catch Marlin with a glass-bottom boat

Let’s eat food

Let’s do everything together and you don’t have to go anywhere

I love you I love you I love you.

Generic plastic love to be shared

Generic plastic love to be collected

and you have a pocket full of it, flooded.

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A Museum of Ugly Arts

you record thousands of snippets and songs many left unfinished in your green-walled bedroom

you stack them alphabetically in a special shelf like a diligent librarian as a memoir of days when you feel incomplete in an action similar to self-torture

singing in an insomniac voice heard by no ear and the torn curtain that swayed back and forth back and forth

you think about this borrowed time and space and what actually borders you with the common life

you try to act cool but but when you listen, it mounts so much of you, and the weight is simultaneously crushing and freeing.

Silent Mouth

beautiful words stitched together and you wear it on your dress like a noble earl

what a pretty sight you are such an innocent child

you taught me how to drink lies and pretend that you are unaffected but not before you tell me that

“people aren’t supposed to be made of fragile skin and bleeding insides”

you have been way too drunk so you asked me to drive you home tonight.

A Girl and the Mirror

Down the rabbit’s hole, having a slightly burnt avocado toast and sweet hot tea by myself in a bedroom that you recently left. The four walls are better in crying and expressing sadness than me. The stillness was disrupted by some sort of wailing and tears.

I’m sorry that I can’t save you. You hate museums because you think that everything less of a beauty can’t be immortal. I’m sorry that I can’t save you. You complained so much about acne scars and oily hair, you complained so much about blazingly hot weather and mind-numbingly cold air conditioner.

You cursed and cried and be sad. You hate everything: dry skin, fat short fingers, unevenly colored tan, soft fabrics, cute haircuts. I’m sorry that I can’t save you, I should’ve invited you for a breakfast, with another burnt bread and overpriced cups of coffee. Anything and oh, anything!

The world is too beautiful for you, you said once to me, in a cold tone. You spent so much time in front of the mirror in your bedroom, and when they failed to show you the girl you want to see, you broke them into tiny pieces that bleed your hands. You have a love-hate relationship with the public woman bathroom. There are moments when you hide there to cry because it’ll be too embarrassing to suddenly cry in front of everyone knowing that they will never understand. Knowing that you hate even more to be a burden. Being negative you feel that you don’t deserve kindness. Attention and sweet words are all a lie. You didn’t want to be the negative friend so you said that you need to go to the public woman bathroom to cry, alone, and lonely.

Sometimes there’ll be messages asking where the hell you have been, sometimes there will be none. Sometimes the messages make your chest tighten in an indescribable way, make your tears flow even more like a river, like a flood. There is this happiness and hope that somebody cares about you and you want to meet your friends again, that they will be there no matter what. They won’t care about the acne, the thin oily hair. So you braced yourself to go out, messily trying to cover the tears with toilet tissues.

You passed the gigantic mirror, where so many beautiful women lined up to fix their makeup, smiling looking all beautiful. You passed it, not glancing looking for your reflection, knowing that you’d hate it because only the dark screen of your phone that makes you seem presentable.

Everything is a whirlwind catastrophe. Nobody can save anybody and nobody cares about anybody but those who are pretty or probably dying. You are none. You are crazy, self-hating woman. So negative you feel like you should be gone that people can have a better picture.

I felt disgusted, I want to rip the cover off of everything. It hurts that you can’t see what I can see. And I was left alone in a bedroom that you’ve left, listening to thousands of records of viola being played in a soft yet menacing melody. I was left alone with your collection of books on the shelf, some are still left unread, while some had the bookmarks in the middle of it. If only you can see what I can see. That you are so so so much more, so much than those oh-you-so-hated crooked smile and acne scars and oily hair. You are so beautiful and I love you and I should’ve said it sooner but: Do you want to have breakfast with me?

Everything

I want to be the kind of cool kids who feel everything deeply only then I could fall freely. I want to be the kind of cool kids who pretend that everything is fine though everything hurts. Someone who would take a leap of faith fearlessly, who could be anything they want to be, not to be bounded by boring rules and mundane unwilling presences.

Yet I held everything dearly, afraid of letting them go, so I drag them along the way, along the journey. Only then when we lost everything that we are truly free. But I was scared of having nothing.

Nonsensical

Stack of magazines, the thing you labeled as nonsensical, sits quietly on the back of my room. My head wanders to a place once we’ve ever been before,on the day when we still in love with each other. That day we laid on the warm sand and let the waves swept us away. We were dragged deeper and chose to let it be. At that time, I should have snapped back to my senses. How we actually started to losing things : the warmth only known by lovers, the unawkward silences we very much enjoy, the silly jokes no one knows but us. As the day races anew, everything changes almost too effortlessly. I am unable to grasp the very body next to mine. We are cold dead. And just like that, suddenly we aren’t lovers anymore. And us, too nonsensical to care to explain why.

A Girl who Stays and A Boy who Leaves

Gifts wrapped in golden paper and little cupcakes over the table. Chicken thighs and mashed potatoes, sprinkled with fine parsley, distinct and peculiar inside the house full of high and low chatters. Hot cocoa and coke lining, dull in comparison to the red wine that was poured to elegant glasses. Decorations put excessively though understandable since your mother is always the craftiest one. Yet you purposefully avoid the crowd and try to make lame excuses such as, Lana is missing and you’re afraid that she’s escaped the house.

I found you inside the empty bathtub, in a bathroom in the second floor, with an empty bottle of lemon coke by your hand. You close your eyes and listen to a list of sad songs (since you only listen to curated lists of sorrowful notes and verses) through the now ugly earphones. Blissfully ignore the questions and comments from elderly downstairs about details such as : When will he leave? or Manchester is good for youngsters.

“I need to pee,” I said.

Much to my surprise, you hear my voice through the song and get up from the bathtub. When I’m done, I found you just outside the bathroom, humming to notes I’m not familiar with.

“You shouldn’t be here. It’s your party,” I said.

You shoot me an angry look. “What do you know?”

I might deserve that angry look because what a girl who stays knows about a boy who leaves?

Of places I’ve never been and strangers I’ll never met. When I would be safe in the arm of neighbourhood I know very well. Where I would get to meet the same faces I always met and fight the same stagnant fights. Everything is no less than a repetition by now.

We first met in a coffee shop that has just opened two days earlier and you listened to my rant about the new elected mayor. You answered and laughed equally serious and I thought that you are not bad as a stranger. So we hit it off and spent many other nights talking about that one crazy guy in the neighbourhood who always wears electric pink coat in winter, about boys and girls we observe in details, for no other purpose except for our own amusement.

You told me that you’ve fallen in love with me. To which I answered that me, too, is in love with you. We became lovers and for once I thought that the neighbourhood is less boring. We walked upon nooks and crannies I knew well yet felt differently. Might be because we sang sad songs harmoniously, thing I never once did before and I simply madly in love.

I thought that we were happy. Much to my ignorance, you became tired of me: you’ve been cheating. Yet I keep silence as if I know nothing, in an idiotic fear of losing you to a place that is not Manchester; that is to a strange place of another girl’s tender embrace. And that’s how I was introduced to ache and pain. How then I couldn’t distance every sad songs we sang with my own being. How the words of love spoken meant nothing yet another scar is inflicted.

Then what do I know about promises of new places? What do I know about excitement and false hopes upon meeting new strangers?

I force myself to be well in front of you so I contain my anger and say, “Lana, your dog, is sleeping by the fireplace downstairs.”