I wonder if the consciences of tyrants twinge just a little too, when they inflict a new pain.
Or are they always inured?
Don’t look at my face!
Here, see what I forgave you for, instead!
Don’t, don’t do that
-don’t look into my eyes
It’s just something I threw on
Oh, it’s just a good light
Yes, last night was wonderful
You fell asleep on me, but hey-
At least you had fun!
That’s what matters, right?
It’s okay, these things happen
What’s that, you need space?
Oh yes, I’d love to shop for your boss
It’s just a few miles out of my way
Haha, yes, you’re just friendly
I understand perfectly if
you want to gift her lingerie
Sure, I need no guarantees
I’m not going anywhere
So kind, I know, so sweet, I know
I put everyone at ease
Because ‘ugly girls have good
Paper bags for our heads,
from the groceries
covering the lease
Ignoring the intent
Is what we deal in, instead of
That’s the only trade we know
So that’s the commerce we expect
-and know of no other.
You can see black and white
when you’re taught that
You’re ugly in color
Ugly With Colors.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this ‘ugly girls have good personalities’ thing, but doesn’t make it any less painful.
Or, as my father puts it, at least you have no reason to waste time in front of a mirror.
Maybe. Or maybe that’s because that’s not the reflection that matters to me.
I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while. Only it’s been twelve years and I don’t know where you are, anymore. The last time I looked for you, I saw that you’d done a live performance at a bar near your house that got a huge turn out and blitzed everywhere on Facebook. That made me so happy. That you were still pursuing your dream. Some dreams shouldn’t ever die.
Things have been strange for me. Recently my boyfriend got very drunk and said a lot of things, hurtful things, that have made me think, nonetheless. One of those things is that I’m an ’emotion hag’. I’m not sure if you know what one of those is. It’s like fag-hag, a gay man’s female best friend, only according to him, my area of expertise is people who want to talk about their emotions, not gay men.
And he meant it in an insulting way, because he was drunk and hurting and trying to be as hurtful to me as he could. It’s just one of the things he said, and one of the things that stayed with me, but I’m not sure it’s a bad thing at all. I tried explaining to him when he was sober that he’s right, it is a pattern of my behavior. I do ‘listen’ too much, and let people vent to me, but that’s because that’s all I can do for them. These are people who are hurting, and the least I can do is to listen to them. I don’t have the finances to help them and I don’t have any way of changing their situation- Hell, I can’t even change my own. All I can do is listen, give them someone to bounce thoughts off, so I do that. It makes him uncomfortable because he doesn’t like my ‘range of emotion’, or at least, the amount of emotion I fluctuate through on a daily basis. It’s not that he doesn’t feel the same. He does, he just doesn’t believe in acknowledging it.
He likes to think he’s above such base human tendencies such as feeling. Only he refuses to see, and I’d never point it out, but every time he gets that drunk, he does just the same thing we all do. We feel. We let ourselves feel.
I thought of you that day. It was not the first time I’d seen an angry drunk, but the frustration, the desperation to lash out at someone, to see them hurt the same way he was hurting… It made me think of you. You got just as furious every Friday, when you could drink without having to worry about work the next day. The odd beers in the week days would just leave you dour, and sometimes surly, but never full blown bitter. That was reserved for weekends, when you could drink yourself blind and blame me for being sixteen when you were forty already. For being young when you weren’t anymore, for having a future when you hated your job, for being smart, and for not moving to UK to be with you, or for having guy friends were closer to my age.
I think a lot of that went over my head at the time. I was just a girl, even though I won’t deny I was perceptive even for my age. But that only helped me handle your bad moods. It didn’t help me understand them, or understand that that the relationship was fundamentally wrong. I was not your muse. That sounds a little silly, said out loud. I was not your partner or your lover. I was a damaged young girl who was unbelievably grateful for even having anyone around me who said they loved me, or gave me any respect. Because what you gave me was not respect by anyone else’s standards, but compared to what I got from the ‘real’ people in my life, it was still one of the best things to be happening to me.
I got scared, though. Over time, I couldn’t keep blaming the beer believably enough, and I couldn’t justify your resentment of my not being there with you. And somewhere during that period I started growing a spine in secret. Still battered emotionally and physically, but a spine nonetheless. And I’m sorry. The entire situation had veered off from being a place of comfort to a place where more hurt stemmed from. I was an adult at sixteen, like I was an adult at twelve, but even adults are slow to learn their lessons sometimes. And I was afraid of you, you gave me reason to be. I should have been more afraid of you, in retrospect. But I knew then as I know now, you were never a bad man. You are a good man. You were just troubled. And a sixteen year old girl an ocean away was not the answer to anything. Except more pain. And I regret causing you that pain.
I heard the recordings of your live performance. You still brush the hair off your forehead exactly the same way. And you still smoke incessantly. Although I can’t look at you scoldingly for that anymore, given that I’ve started smoking too ( I know, right? Who would’ve thought?) And you smile more fully. And no matter what happened between us, it is so heartwarmingly, gloriously wonderful to see you smile that way.
One day, I will too.
From pathological Hope
Disappointments are bad enough, but
What makes them even tougher to cope
This nagging uncertainty
Wishful thinking, or just stupidity
That there might, there might just be
Something better for me
Because I can’t stop believing
And I may be stubborn, but
Life, is unrelenting
I try not to, but
I keep bending
People crush me, and walk away
And I raise my head yet again
Too hopeful to accept that
There are no fucking happy endings.
Days after the apology
Mornings of the aftermath
The sky isn’t really blue yet
The pillows still suffer my wrath,
No, I’m not yet okay
And I don’t know why it’s so
Difficult to wash with a thousand ‘sorry’s
The blood off a bruised ego
Bared in the light of day
My vision blurs, at the oddest times
The world is gray, semi permanently
You riddled holes through which colors leached away
Even your smile doesn’t stand out to me
I don’t know, maybe I can’t see
Maybe I don’t want to see
Let’s count this one as a lesson learnt
Even love needs some time to fill fury’s cracks
Pride does not suffer greenstick fractures
Spines can bend till they break, and not always
No amount of alcohol can atone for
A drunken night’s sins
Even angry words are more potent when laced
You’re hung over, and I’m struggling to re paint my sunrises
And I can’t
-you need to hold the brush
Because these are colors
You have to give back to me
We created a stone, you and I
Buried deep within me
Fed it from my blood, nurtured it
with your caring
Day by day, we willed it to bloom
In hopes of harvesting happiness
From its cold surface
We thought that I
Was birthing a world
Just hiding in my shadow
But we created a stone
And it was lifeless
Shouldn’t we have known that
It would never grow?
Ps. I have a new About Me page, guys! Let me know what you think! 😀
So this is how great loves die
That which promised to surpass dynasties
To outlive generations
That clung on through wars
Endured the vagaries of
Which fought for survival
Kept beating by force of sheer will
Which slept through a moment of weakness
And a mouthful of sleeping pills
And awoke two days later, retching and wretched
But still pregnant with a spark of hope, still ..
This is how great loves die
Alone, desperate, in need
Of a fragment of consolation
Because they bared their soft throat to
The cutting edges of greed, they die
Under their lover’s murmured encouragement, they lie, and bleed
Stripped of their one last delusion
So this is how great loves die, discarded
At the altars of success, and ambition