I’m too tired of wanting/not-wanting. Tired of constantly telling myself how I should be feeling. Tired of feeling like I’m too deep in my head one minute and then just dangling in the wind the next. So maybe I’ll stop. I’ll say what I feel when I feel it, even if nobody’s listening—even if everybody is. You’re sad and then you’re not, that’s how it works, right? I’ll be sad and then I won’t.
I want to hold sunlight between my fingers and dissolve it into moondust.
I want to wrap my wrists in coloured glass and then hear the bangles sing every time I move.
Mostly, mostly, I want to be kind. To love and not question it. To be loved and not question it.
I want to look and look, because I think I heard somewhere that love is mostly about seeing. And sometimes I think I went through life blindly, arms outstretched. I think things die only from neglect. I think we forget that when you hold hands, if you’re still enough, you can feel their heartbeat in between their fingers.
To choose out of desire and not habit.
I think I hold it back like the moon holds back the waves. But then they crash onto you anyway. I think I’m always trying to explain, to you, to myself, to myself—but I never listen.
I say nothing is broken and then cut my fumbling fingers on sharp edges. I press the wound to my mouth: nothing is broken. My throat wells up with everything that is not broken.
Listen, this is how it goes, yes? Someone always has to leave first. But I’ll be damned if it’s me—
—I’ll be damned if it’s not. They keep saying some things are worth it, but they never tell you when they’re not—and these days, I think the odds are particularly against my favor.
I’ll wake before the sunlight reaches the shelf and this I will have for breakfast: ice-cold water, eggs, fruit, a bowl of oatmeal just shy of being sweet, and a heart, closing. I’ll crush up the egg shells and press them into soil. I’ll hold the heart between my palms and lock it back within my ribs. I think I can live with this, in all it’s ruined glory.
I think there’ll be others I’ll do the closing for again, too. Others this heart will jump out for.
I don’t know where I learnt this but I think for something to last, you must never talk about it. As if the universe is waiting to take it away, a silent thief, ever-present. But eventually you have to, right? You have to taste the words for yourself, the way they sound in the air, the sting of them against your cheek.
But.
To explain is some admission of defeat. Some evidence of failure.
Can you not simply feel it–know it, even when I don’t?
I think sometimes I forget to account for the humanity of it all. I think sometimes I forget to be human at all—all I am is a pile of rejects, layer upon layer of every unfinished self. You peel back one hollow after another. Every day I reach desperately for some amount of goodness to fill them in with, but most nights I collapse on to the bed, unsuccessful.
Perhaps that is human after all.
I kiss a silent prayer into my heart and then stand in the middle of a field to offer it to the void. I say I am good and I am free and I am unafraid. I say, ‘Beat away forever and a day!’
And then I flinch when anything moves to accept it.
I am good and free and unafraid only as long as this beating device stays in the middle of this field, under this here sun. It’s the oldest cliche, sure, but if you take it, I may never get it back. I like the sound of it too much to give it up like this. I’m sorry but I know how this goes.
I am afraid to use the stronger word so I will use none. You can take the silence for emptiness.
I want so much to be done with this. To hear no echoes of whatever words I swallowed. To hear only the stars calling. To hear only songs I do not know the ending note of.
I think if I wanted this the way you wanted me to, it would be easier. But I do not know how.
There’s a part in this somewhere where I turn translucent where you can see right through me, where you can tell I will break under the size of it all, right before I break.
And I’m afraid when that happens, all that would come out would be too bitter to leave this light unstained, so maybe. Maybe I say the words before they turn sour and acidic, then catch them before they dart away. Slip them into my pockets, safe, stripped of all ruthless desire.
But sometimes, still. In the middle of a lecture, at the end of a long day just as I start to fall asleep, when I have tea on the brink of boiling over on the stove; sometimes a wind chime, sometimes a harsh, almost-desperate plea: this is yours for the taking.
won’t you? won’t you won’t you won’t you.
But you know, all things fade under the sun. I try to be true because I’m afraid if I stop, the sun would go out. (the moon I can lie to)
Yours sincerely,
Simran
Hello! I don’t know if this site still gets any traffic, I only update thrice in a year (if I’m lucky) and interact with no one heh. I’m twenty one now. it’s raining currently and I’m home for once because we’re still in quarantine and it’s 5 am. I pulled something of an all-nighter to prep for an exam I’m not sure is happening, but ended up writing some, too. I hope you’re staying safe.
Crumbling Moons 