If it was meant to last, it would have.

The last time I saw you was the day I get the first tattoo.

Sorry, it does not say anything about falling in love

but about what to hold on to as we hit the ground when it gets over.

No matter where did the tattoo artist put the ink,

it was only within my chest that hurt like the million needles.

The tattoo artist assured that the wound

will heal soon and the design will take over.

I wondered how much time it will take

for the wounds which you slashed into my skin

in the last five years.

You ringed my mother to tell that it’s better that I move on

as my bones are aging, while all this time I was praying

that they do so with you by my side.

That night my mother made me sit in a chair

and told me that I do not have to take shit from anyone

especially those who can’t see past my mouth or my eyes or

my long thin hair and past my skin into the beating heart.

She is religious so she told me how god 
in the middle of good things suddenly wrecks our plan

when they are about to wreck us.

Now I don’t want to be a memory but a burden

so heavy on your shoulders that

you.

cant.

walk.

At the late hours of  the following nights, 
tossing in my bed I find myself

taking a trip down the memory lane, 
visiting all the ghosts left behind.

I am haunted by your name -four letters-

that was once my favourite word on the planet

is now like an ice cube on my tongue.

I spit it. I spit it. I spit it.

And I sleep myself to spitting it and a lot other things.

I wake up and leave in the morning

with every synonym of feeling heavy and

thankfully no hand to hold,

that has been strangling my pretty life.

After work I go to market and buy new lip colors

but dammit they do not sell any shade of forgiveness.

All this while the sun didn’t stop to set,

neither had it stopped to rise.

Through my window, each morning it shines on my face,

as if gently reminding me I am still someone worth shining on.

And this is it probably.

If we weren't able to be permanent,

at least now I have something that will.

Sunday Ke Sunday

Today unknowingly I happened to bump into Sunday or let’s say he bumped into me.

I woke up while I didn’t wish to. The bathroom was just beginning to stop spinning and my feet were starting to feel steady on the ground. Sunday hurriedly came to me and he handed his hand. It took me some time to realize it’s for shaking. You know it takes time. And time fleets in a special way on Sundays.

 "Give Monday my love" he said, 

waving and flashing a smile at me.

Countries are small. People are not.

Who cares what colour your flag has,

It’s Independence Day,

Let’s just be happy.

Because in any case happiness is not about

how do we pray.

And to whom.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwC1cSIsl8A&feature=youtu.be

While we in the east celebrated Independence day,

certain people in the middle-east

celebrated ethnic cleansing.

Victims faced bombs, missiles and rockets hit,

 and also faced whatever they did.

That little country got filled with air

that smelt of acid and gunpowder.

Shambling through the seas of dead babies,

fathers tore off their mouths open and scream,

mothers sat in silence, forgetting how to mourn

and dying kids between the blood, between the pain

promised to tell everything to the God.

Somebody please teach them humanity

and how much they need it.

Your words like fists to me

You said you like me.

It made me feel like a leaf,

Falling in a certain panic

from a tree.

Slowly, without control,

Only thinking

Oh god, oh god,

oh god.

You said you’re weak.

That night I got home

and knocked on my bones

instead of the door.

And they sounded

so hollow,

They only echoed

that it hurts

everywhere, everywhere

everywhere.

Later, you asked me

what’s wrong?

I locked my answer

behind my crooked teeth.

Swallowed the key

And felt it hit my stomach,

While I managed to say

Nothing, nothing

Nothing.

:)

Seven billion people.

Spread over seven continents.

Spread over one planet.

Seven billion people.

Less than seven billion hearts.

And seventeen billion faces.

Seven billion people.

A hell lot of billion smiles.

And yours is the one

I call my world. 

Memoryloss

Do you remember losing yourself

on finding me?

Do you remember reading me

Like the book of disasters?

Do you remember then

being a band-aid for the cuts I’d been?

Do you remember the grenade I gave you,

Telling it’s my heart.

Do you remember lighting my cigarette

While walking through the forest fires?

Do you remember the black of my eyes

And the white of my bones

And everything grey in between?

To the moon and back,

Remember?

Through a black hole

and for eternity, do you remember?

Yeah, neither do I.

Forgiving is hard. Forgetting is even worse.

They told me on the day one you’re a monster

So I loved you under my bed

After fifty six days, you packed all your stuff,

Took a shower and moved out.

After fifty six and a half days I am waiting

to begin to learn how to ignore

Because now you’re the elephant in every room.

While I’m trying not to think about you, about your name,

everything around me is singing it.

Like a song I can’t get rid of.

The entire night we both spoke a language that neither

Of us could understand.

And I don’t know if it sounded like “please hit me”

I wish I knew you’d cross the line

I could have quietly erased it while you were not looking

But you crossed the line

Cleared your throat

Kissed you knuckles

And took it wherever you wanted

Punched in my face
Broke the windshield

Made me bleed

You should know I bleed enough in 12 months every year.

I don’t need your kind contribution.

So a part of me asked you to leave,

The other made you stay in my head

and I hope we treat each other better this time.

Not just another story I can't tell my mother.

Your fingers reached to the back of my skull.
Your words touched where your hands could not.
You turned out to be my perfect cup of coffee
While I figured why I hated tea.
In your duplex apartment, we went one.
Simply and softly.                          
Very softly and very simply.
The only thing hard were the muted million kisses,
As if we were scared of the walls who might tell your neighbours.
We were fierce.
But in an attempt to leave the creases on our hearts
And not on to the blue bedspread.

We lay next to each other
While our clothes made friendship with the floor.
Between the fire and us and our skin, there was no room for light.
The night itself was like the match sticks that burnt and died.
It burnt because it was about us. It died because it had to.
My mother says there’s no shame in being hungry.
But how do I tell her I am hungry for another person.
Hungry for another soul. Hungry for another heart.
Hungry for another girl.

Until next time

At two thirty in the night

I’m not sure how to get home,

so I’m outside your apartment.

I went for the double beer tour.

And then a few more.

All these years, when you lived

in the parallel world,

So much near but just not close

I got better at drinking

than stopping.

While the emptiness got better

 at being heavy.

So you come down

straight through the window.

Unnoticed, but like that necessary air

I don’t know

how you get inside my lungs,

and replace every corner of it

with your breath,

as if you are the only thing

it needed.

From every angle I look drunk

And you come looking a lot like fun.

Drunk fun is so much better

As no one seems to care,

the trees, the streetlights,

the pavement, the sleeping dogs,

the gates and the gate keepers,

except you,

who keep it a goodnight

until the yawning era.

Because otherwise

it might mean some falling

And you care

how I am afraid of heights. 

Bitter is rather better

There are pains that painkillers can’t kill.

There are muscles you can’t un-tense.

There are scars you can’t undone.

There are relations that are nothing but unhealthy.

There are these absolute strange moments,

with the most familiar people.

Every time I bite my nails, I like to ignore

the meaning in the depth of my teeth.

The size and shape of my feet

remind people of my dead grandmother.

They should know it wouldn’t be easy for her to get to heaven

because they can’t stop looking down.

My eighty four year old grandmother

used to wake up before her memory,

always with the ghosts alongside

that partnered her for twenty five years.

But this morning, she woke up with a sigh

that escaped her body and danced

 in the wind like the white flag.

Don’t think I am like a stuck cap of a bottle,

a jammed window pane that I will open up.

I don’t have much to open up but two hands

with two middle fingers to swivel around.

So when they asked me why don’t I visit them,

I wanted to grab them by shoulders as my reply

However I only said, just out of habit.

My parents chose my name,

my ancestors my surname.

And that’s enough.

Everything else is my personal choice.