confessions full of jack

sometimes i get the feeling that pessimism is not my natural state of being. it might be that it is easier to be the person everyone believes me to be. but then again everyone knows me a little differently...

looking at you is like sitting by the sea; they say i have met you but how will i ever know? 

"smell her" sister urges me; "i am not sure if i am feeling anything" i say. 

"you love her" she declares; "i feel hopeful and excited and scared and detached; and i could erase you if i saw you hurting her. is that what you mean?" i ask. 

"that's what i mean and more. we are all forever changed now that she exists. and plus, you are not detached from her; you turn cold when you don't care. your cheeks are glowing with the love you are trying to undefine. it's fascinating how well you can love, and how ignorant you are towards your ability." 

you are my niece; i will let you teach me what that means.  

confessions full of jack

i feel like running away whenever someone evokes emotion within me.
the shadows of reality - books, songs, photos, movies, paintings- are easier to handle.

confessions full of jack

i am very lucky; even through my darkest days there has always been someone to offer me kindness and affection. not that i have been smart enough to let them in most of the time, but i knew they were within my reach. 

i have been told i am so easily loved because i so easily love. i have several objections to that theory, but it is a theory i can live with; there are much worse things people have thought about me.

confessions full of jack

telling me to hurry up is like telling a cat to stop sleeping.

confessions full of jack

i have no problems with destroying my history if it will help me build a better future.

confessions full of jack

i love hooded capes; i own many hoodies. once i have proven my worth to myself (i don't have high expectations as you might assume, i merely want to be a functional, decent, consistent human being) i will acquire a hooded cape and use it as my winter coat. it will have a secret pocket for my personal stash of lollipops.

confessions full of jack

if i ever did commit suicide i certainly wouldn't leave a note;
i wouldn't kill myself if i had anything left to say.

i was busy writing stories in my palms; i was busy and the word distraction was unknown to me. "one for stories, stories for one."

he was one of those boys who refused to remain within his skin. he wanted to cover the whole of existence; reality had to be covered in him. he couldn't have known what he was doing when he came to me and dipped my hands in his belly; -my palms need to be kept clean for stories, and to write is the only thing i truly like- he never asked.

the stories are having a hard time sticking to my palms now,and i do not like the stench of bile and blood beneath my nails. "my jaguar will lick me clean."

confessions full of jack

i do not want my memory to be erased;
i simply want to be erased from the memories of others.

confessions full of jack

i'd rather struggle with the weight of reality than be comforted by temporary illusions.

confessions full of jack

i have forgotten how it is to keep a truthful journal. my honesty flares up and burns out between the letters of a single word. i am ever consistent in my reluctance to any kind of commitment; no story is totally mine, some are always borrowed. i got so used to hiding my truth from prying eyes that i became hidden from myself during the process. 

it was like a cry for help; last night deep in dreams i heard a woman say "i know you, i feel you; i don't understand why i can't see you."

confessions full of jack

i want to take a nap in a freshly dug grave.

confessions full of jack

i might let you convince me but i won't be fooled.

this has nothing to do with love

hood up-head down
(it was years ago.)

and here i am
refusing to grow up
and memories will not go cold.

so this was it,
it was your birthday that shook the very grounds we walked on.
(it gets harder for me every year and i do some crazy shit.)

so this was it,
your lover in me will not die.
she drinks herself to sleep;
she drinks herself to love.

grab my arms and shake me like you used to!
grab my heart and pull on it!
(i never wanted anyone else to hurt me...)
my veins look blue
but i am telling you
since that day
i have nothing running through.

it is that groan.
it is that single tear.
and the bruises one-two-three.

i need you to come back and kill me properly.

i.
need.
you.

(i am still drunk;
why else would i want your beard tickles?
why else would i want your sigh to pin me down?

pin me down...
my blood,
my maker,
i can't stand missing you.)

confessions full of jack

immortality does not sound appealing to me. on the contrary, i like the finite nature of life. most things are precious only because they'll eventually perish. 

only if my sisters became immortal and they demanded my company i would accept immortality. even then i would use all my powers to convince them to spare me from the burden of a neverending existence. but i doubt it would work, we three are used to share both the burden and the relief.

(i wish i had the courage to accept immortality in the name of romantic love, i do like the idea of spending eternity with your soulmate. i just do not think my soul can mate for that long.)

i like it. i like forgetting my details. it leaves room for new encounters in mirrors.

there was a kiss on my shoulder five minutes ago, and i met sarcasm in my hair late last night. a new hidden joke winks at me every time i catch a glimpse of the tip of my nose, and my sleepy cleavage presents me indifference.

i run out of coffee and milk and cereal. i run out of fruit and vegetables. i run out of doom and gloom.

she catches me from behind and kisses my neck the way only sisters can kiss. my skin is used to her lips, and my body falls back into her embrace. my body doesn't know a life where her body doesn't exist.

"i love you" she says, forceful and meaningful is her voice. so many more words are wrapped into that simple sentence.

i used to worry she only loved me because she didn't know how not to. i used to worry she only loved my past; my cuddly, smiley, playful years spent at her skirt. i used to worry our connection was out of habit. i am a creature of habit, and sometimes i think the whole world is of my stock. but she has a pagan heart, her actions are ritualistic never merely habitual. her being accepts time in a way i can never comprehend. so when she touches me, and tells me that i am loved by her, i can feel the now in her breath.

i am lovely now. i am wise now. i am strong now. i am kind now.

and i can finally see that the darkness and the distance of my existence were never ignored for they just couldn't be.

i am enough now.
-i don't have to wait for anything.-

confessions full of jack

i barely can contain the laughter that pops in my belly when asked "what do you want in life?" as if they'd understand if i told them, as if they'd give it to me if they could. i bullshit an answer out and mirror the question back. that is the point anyway; it is their dreams not mine they want to talk about.

i am allergic to cats
but
i take a pill so he can snuggle close to me.
he is deaf
but
he watches me intensely so i can speak out my whole truth. 

formicus got married

denying your true nature only lasts for so long:
(
i skinned myself raw and sewed a wetsuit that fits me better.
)

my heart

three words

he doesn't know i can hear his eyelids.
 
from deep dreams i surface;
rest of him frozen in silence
he mouths the words he fears.

he doesn't know how loud his heart beats.

  he is my brother. 

not the kind of brother given by blood, but the kind that is chosen by heart.

we drank jack&coke that day and had serious conversations.
we didn't save the world;

the world means very little compared to abstract thought. 

we saved emotions; 

we saved belly laughs and waterfalls.

he is übermensch.

and sometimes we are dark,

very dark;

darker than black beetles,

darker than jack&coke.

(for a few minutes yesterday
i was alive again.)

i don't mind smiling;
feel my heart beating.

i wanna print out my photos and write stories all over them. 

i was counting steps in dreams last night
i kept falling dowowown after number 29.

he says he wants a letter

"i want you to write me a letter,
a love letter joyful and light.

fill it with dreams of your choosing
and leave them free of doubt."

he says he wants a letter
but i heard him, he confessed.
he just wants to be a hero, he wants to know the taste.
a story for his name, his smile and his eyes;
it just so happens that he heard i like to write.

the wish was simple enough
so i kept breathing it in and out.

confessions full of jack

i am master of none...

i can smell it on me;
death smells fine.

everything
dies within;

is it because i dream every night
that i stopped dreaming in waking?

i
 pretend.
         i
          pretend.
                  i
                   pretend.

that's why you never trusted us.
you knew how deceptive i was.

(i lied when i laid the blame on you.
it was me, love;
it was me who had a change of heart.)

i wish you could be there with me next time i get a tattoo. not to hold my hand or make me smile, just so that i don't ever forget the veins running down your arms... 

i just wanted to learn how to climb a tree; it is because i succeeded you let a murder of crows loose on me.

erythema solare

May was loud, and we were barefoot. The filth looked dirtier upon my marble-white feet; I have a tendency to avoid direct conversations with sun rays. I love the sun just like I love almost everything else. Silently, from afar; always buried under/behind layers of blockers and screens. I never truly hide, nor do I welcome being burnt raw.

We all smelled of sunscreen lotions. One if not another had to put it on my neck and shoulder blades every now and again. My arms could reach back there, but I enjoyed the intimacy. They would mumble and grumble and whine about my obsession. But they all patted me with affection once they were done. I was always given the shady spot, and they all babied me if I got sun struck despite all our efforts. We were young, we danced on dirty streets and sun struck me. As night fell down at our feet, it would now be my cheeks and nose that glowed redredred. My face would burn like a chimney; they would joke about hugging my face to sleep.

Nights of May were kind to us. The pile of shoes in the corner would grow smaller as the cool breeze took over the street. Dirty shoes upon dirty feet; less bare feet for the night crawlers to notice; less bare feet to beat the cobble stones. We all had cups in our hands; cups of wine, cups of coffee, cups of fresh lemonade. I would sneak away to find us a bottle of whiskey. I would always come back with a bottle of Jack, they would joke about yet another obsession of mine. On those little excursions, away from my dirty footed friends I would suddenly transform into an anomaly. Eyes would tell me I was misplaced and out of time. Eyes would ask me about my intentions; eyes would try to decipher the size of my madness. It was an urban May and I looked like the beach.

i ignore my own revolution. i already took down the oppressive government within, yet i still pretend to long for the freedoms i have been practicing for years. obsessed with waiting, i have overlooked the arrival of my golden era.

come on, love; let's tango. i'll learn how to lead if all you've ever done is follow. i'll let my beat tickle your palm and you'll remind me that i chose reality over illusions long ago.

the moon is 39%  full says an online calculator; how full am i at this exact moment? could you calculate that for me? would you need to know every crater, each rock on my surface? would it be enough if you could only see me in all my glory?... or is it the same as the moon, does my percentage only indicate how much of me reflects the sun that binds us together?

i surrender.

it was only a few weeks ago that i sat in the corner, close to tears, face pressed against my bony knees: "how will i get over this? this is too much. i am tired. i am tired."

"pfft." she said,  just like the way i would (we have the same facial expressions.) :"i have seen you shake off truly horrific things; this is nothing for you. now give me something to read; i need to go to the bathroom."

i still can't decide if i should be flattered by that comment, or pissed off at the lack of concern. yesyes she was right, but that's not the point.

eternity

i do not need to love you
to feel the magic you possess.

i do find a quicker beat within
as i stand before your grace.

the unfolding beauty of your existence
rewrites the meanings of beginnings and ends.

(the broken clocks 
started ticking
as i crept;
 
i must be dead.)

bedtime stories: deleted girls won't love

“Hey there, Frankie. You’ve managed to find me three times in the last two weeks. I am impressed.”

My lips held their ground but I couldn’t stop my eyes from smiling. It was the dorky slant of his shoulders that got me every single time. It would only appear when he was getting ready to speak. It was as if one side of him kept trying to fall off. There he stood with a smirk, blocking the light, blocking the way out.

“You are too predictable, sweetie. The hard part is figuring out the days you won’t leave the house. You have managed to fall off the radar of so many people; it is getting harder and harder for me to track you down. For a while there I honestly thought you have finally left the country.”

I had stopped dreaming of leaving long ago. I had stopped making plans; I didn’t have any more wishes left in me. I was merely killing time. I was merely keeping myself busy enough to pass as a human being. He didn’t know that though. The girl he remembered had a new wish for every hour. The girl he knew dreamt of train rides and sea voyages. He knew her well. They would sit on street corners for hours and she would tell him of the adventures she craved. He liked the way she started dancing as she dreamt of strange lands and strangers. He didn’t like her hunger for the unknown, but he liked her. He had told her one late night that he would give her everything she wished upon if she could only manage to sleep by his side at nights. He had asked her to alter the dreams a little, he never said give up; he never wanted her to stop dreaming. She had kissed him on his jawline with a little tongue; “you are too delicious” was all she had said. 

That girl was gone, that girl was lost; I had erased her, and he didn’t know.

“When are you meeting your friends?” he asked, after he kissed my cheekbones and pushed the hair from my eyes. He didn’t retreat back, and I felt the wind of the words as he spoke. I had to look up to make eye contact, I had never managed to get used to the size of him. Built like a gladiator; he had the softest touch. I pulled away, I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and I didn’t understand why I was blushing. “I am not. I’ll go home soon.”

He squinted, I heard the muscles move. I had my eyes pinned on the table. My hands were in my lap, and my body was trying to fold in on itself. 

“What do you want Frankie?”
“You do know that my name is not Frankie, don’t you?”
“I am the one who put you together and woke you through a lightning storm. Don’t you remember coming to me with your body parts in a basket? Night after night I stitched you up, vein by vein. Don’t you remember our bloody nights?”
“I remember everything about us.”
“What’s your name then?”
“My name is Frankie.”
“And who am I?”
“You are the love of my life.”
“Wrong answer. You lose."

He smiled again. That smile always made me question reality. He had the stance of a mighty warrior and the smile of a sweet boy. It was that smile I held onto as he cried and yelled in my arms for all that he had lost. Holding him as he sobbed was like battling killer waves on the Atlantic. My arms were not long enough, but my heart drew strength from that smile that I knew he had in him. He would grow calm in my arms and I would start humming. Then his face would appear in the dark, a warrior with wet cheeks; his eyes steady and strong as ever, his eyes would forget the tears in an instant. He would hook one finger on my collar bone and pull me close. That’s when he used to smile. I always thought he was amused by the songs I would hum, he always said he was amused by the look in my eyes whenever he came up from crying.

I wanted to kiss him every single time he smiled. I wanted to sleep next to him even when his torment was over. But I felt responsible, he had just been born again; I had to protect him even from myself.  We talked, we danced, we walked. He would give me piggy back rides; I would surprise him with kisses on his face. Chin, cheek, eyebrows; never the lips. I would tell him stories so he would stay by my side. He would get me drunk so I would fall asleep in his arms.

It was when he started smiling on his own, it was then I had to leave. He thought he loved me, but I was just a dream. Everything I wanted lay in the future, the present wasn’t a gift I valued. I wanted to run, I wanted to leave, I wanted to die on the road. Dreams fell off my lips; each word was a falling star I wished upon. He would tower over me, strong and steady and kind; I felt safe in his shadow. All I had to do was kiss his lips once and we would be inseparable, I knew.

It was a chilly October night, when he had offered me the world. “What is mine is yours.  All you have to do is write and dream and dance. I’ll feed you, I’ll carry you, I’ll love you.” I had my face buried in his neck; he had me folded up in his arms. I believed him, that was the problem. I trusted him more than I trusted myself, and that was scarier than being alone.

“I need you to go now, Frankie.”
“My offer still stands.”
“Thankfully the girl you made the offer to isn’t around anymore. You can’t give me the world, because I don’t want it.”

My eyes were fixed on his. So I couldn’t understand how he managed to move so fast. In a split second his finger had made it through the scarf around my neck and hooked itself on my collar bone. He pulled me in. He pulled me close. Those lips I had written ballads to were inches away from mine. I could feel his breath that used to carry out pain; it was full of strength now, it was full of conviction.

“You don’t have to be alone any more. I have enough skin for you to rewrite your dreams on."

True love was just a kiss away. True love was the one dream I never wished to dream again.

if i could whisper one sentence in your ear it wouldn't be about dreams and love, i would apologize for not leaving sooner.

every few years i try on that one sweater that hasn't fit me since i was a little girl. i don't actually like its warmth; and i never once thought i could wear it for long... yet, i still try... i would approach you from behind and a soft whisper would make it through your ear canal "i am sorry i put the sweater on, i am sorry i didn't take it off when it started itching. you'd have liked me a hell lot better in my tank tops and baggy jeans. i am sorry i appeared to be someone i have never been."

confessions full of jack

i tell my best lies when i'm full of good intentions. any other time i don't even bother; any other time i choose honesty over mercy.

if you were a secret i had to keep,
i could have kept you forever.

secrets and scars and silent screams,
i am their overprotective mother.

i've always believed in the magic of simplicity and focus. blurry vision and intricate details are only good for captivating stories that meddle with the flow of time. in real life they just trigger confusion that we mistake for passion or deceit. movies and fairy tales have corrupted us, that's why we keep trying to write the most interesting scripts for our lives.

keşke daha genç olsaydım, daha küçük, daha savunmasız... hiçbir şeyin uzun süre acı vermediğini bilmek acıdan daha ağır bugün.

smiling has healing powers. those slight movements of the lips remind you of the life within. and if by some luck the shape of your mouth makes another's eyes glisten you know you are saved. it is within those muscle movements we redeem ourselves. they are the simplest form of joy and celebration. one that transcends gender, culture and time. we all feel safe within the folds of a true smile; a true smile makes children of us.

don't think me strange if you see me in the corner trying to pin a smile on my face. i am merely reminding myself that i have the technology to laugh and love, and  that my lack of communication with the joy of life is an illusion. my face knows, my lips remember. i am just trying to warm up the muscles so i can make my way back home.

and here is a song my lips sing to my soul when joy feels like a distant star i saw fall:  Del Amitri- Tell her this

because the night belongs to lovers

i don't like doors that are left ajar.
i like them shut tight and locked
or wide open for elephants and such.

let's go shopping for top hats and helium balloons.
sanity is overrated, won't you help me tear a hole through?

i wanna go where cats tango and peaches sing.
i wanna go where love is the shark we keep.

would i still be considered "played" if i knew about the game all along?

i wish i could tell him how right he was; he would have liked that.
now that i am breathless, i am sure we were nothing but thin air.

some mornings i wake up as a silly girl;
determined to touch something that i can never reach.

(i am crashed to mute by the sentences unformed
a thousand words cancel each other out)
i am a scream echoing through the valley
i have to write for you to hear me

we all need somebody to believe in us;
that somebody opens up the communication lines with the mirrors.
then it is up to us to keep seeing ourselves as the unique treasures we have been all along.

i've been putting this off for too long.
i almost did it once,
i can finish it this time.

i will learn to live; so help me Gaia.

boy

he said "you look happy. you look grounded. you look together." 

i never took his observations seriously. he is not the kind to pay much attention to anyone but himself. every opinion he voices is a mirror image of his own reality. he sees the world as he feels himself to be, he feels others as he himself wishes to be seen.

as he kept on comparing me to the woman he once knew, i got chills down my spine. either he had it all wrong, or i was confused about my own personal evolution.

maybe i am better now, for back then i didn't even know i was lost. maybe i am happy now, for back then i couldn't even hear my own voice. maybe i am not as scattered as i believe myself to be, for now i know exactly where each obstacle stands, and i know which part of me is stuck behind each one of them.

"i wish i were more like you." i wanted to let out a hyena laugh upon that sentence. i just said "you don't know me very well." i didn't want to get into the list of my inabilities and insecurities with him. he got offended, i saw it in his eyes. he thought he knew me well. he thought he knew me better than most. he thought the connection we shared would never be lost. i didn't want to tell him all those things i never said to him. the time and the place for that conversation was forever lost. and i didn't care much to be understood by him anymore. i went into the kitchen to get more tea, by the time i got back he would have returned his thoughts back to his life. by the time i got back, he had already started talking about all the mean things the universe was doing to him.

he said "i love talking to you." i smiled. he still didn't know the difference between "talking to" and "talking at."

"i can't talk to my girlfriend like i can talk to you." i didn't hold back my reply this time, there were some things he needed to hear. "you can't talk to her like this, because you are afraid she is going to catch you on your many lies. it is your fault, not hers." he tried to protest, he tried to convince himself that he doesn't lie to her that much. i asked a simple question "does she know you are here right now?" of course not, of course she didn't. he had lied again, and he had lied about something that doesn't need to be a secret. he started on his usual speech about personal freedoms, and avoiding conflicts. my lips smiled, but he saw the annoyance in my eyes.

the protector in me wanted to give her a call and tell her. i wanted her to know who she was dealing with. but she probably knew, he has never been a good liar. he always sounds sketchy when he lies. plus some women do not like their delusional bubbles to burst. furthermore it was quite possible i would end up feeling responsible for causing drama, it was quite possible i would end up having to solve something that had nothing to do with me.

i took a deep breath and continued with my silent listening. he talked a bit more.

he had wanted to come here last night just to prove himself that he was the kind of man who can be friends with his exes. he had wanted to make sure i didn't hate him. he never quite understood the fact that i never loved him enough to hate him when it was over. i was merely annoyed. that's all he had managed to cause within me, annoyance. his ego was hurt because i never reached out to him on my own. his ego was bruised because i never craved for his company. he called me every few months because he was curious, i agreed to see him every few months because i was eager to understand my history. 

with every passing day, i forget more and more of my past. i get so drowned in my current worries that i ignore where i used to be. i get so angry for all the things i can't seem to manage, i cease to be grateful for who i am.

"funny" he said, as he was putting on his shoes "on paper, i am the one who has been moving forward, new job&long-term relationship; but in reality you are the one who has gone through metamorphosis, not i." a final observation i was surprised and delighted to hear, my ego likes the occasional boost, too. a final observation that showed he was still competing with me... silly boy.

teenage angst

there i go again.
down, down, down
the rabbit hole.

i go from room to room opening all the windows;
the night steps in with a shy smile fainting on his lips.
moon follows him, gathering up her skirts as she sits on the couch beside me.
smoke plays with my hair, smoke has light fingers.

a minute ago
i was aching for company
as if
i do not hate to talk.
 
a minute ago
i was trying to overflow
as if
i do not hate to cry.

a minute ago
i was writing a love song
as if
i can carry out a tune.

a minute ago
i was pouring out the coffee
as if
i will sleep tonight.

they were all right;
i AM nothing.

they saw the truth and i was blind;
i AM NOT meant to be.

(all that you lost
will never come back;
all that you will attain
will be diligently destroyed.)

here i am.
here is the night,
the moon,
the smoke.

as my craving for eternal solitude,
as my wish for infinite peace,
as my hope for never-ending silence
MULTIPLIES,
i find myself buried under piles of open eyes,
piercing regrets and loud worries.

(who are you kidding;
when was the last time you even cared?)

aşk

serin günlerde daha kolay olur sanırdım aşk,
ama rüzgar estikçe evin odalarında
benim seni hemen şimdi unutasım geliyor.

ikişer üçer tırmandığım merdivenleri hatırlıyorum,
koşa koşa bitirdiğim şarap şişelerini;
ne acele edesim var artık, ne sarhoş olasım.

yavaş ve ayık günler canımı sıkmıyor;
rüzgar estikçe evin odalarında
benim buralardan gidesim gelmiyor.

(limon kabuğunu sömürmüş tütünler
güneşin altında kurutmak lazım.)

confessions full of jack

i usually don't eat dessert at the end of a meal; i prefer to make a meal out of it. and no, there is nothing strange about having chocolate pudding for breakfast.

names

would you trade places with me? i'll give you all my books.
your hearts can hide under those hats that i possess.

(those hearts that like to collect skins, eyes and your favourite names;
those hearts that beat to angry rap songs and roam through nightmares, dreams.)

i have many drawers you can use and my filing system will do you good.
maybe then you won't confuse desire with destiny; peace might be yours.

let me trade places with you; let the broken clocks start ticking:
time wishes to hold my hand as i breathe; time wants to love me.

jack, i am not confused; the borders between us are nothing but knives. 
you don't truly exist, and my skin ceases to break.

with lips that wish to remain forever sealed i enter the kitchen. one more silent day would increase the panic in mother. so i utter the words good morning when she greets me with a kiss on the cheek. "you haven't been sleeping" she observes. i make an attempt to object. i remind her that i just woke up, and that the act of waking up requires me to sleep first. she raises her hands to my face, and touches my cheeks. "your eyes have sunk into deep dark holes, you are not sleeping properly." she knows my trouble with Mistress Sleep. she has witnessed it for over 20 years. she knows it, but she can't understand it. her logic is simple, if i tire myself enough during the day, i will sleep a dreamless sleep. if you remind her of her sleepless nights, the ones she sat waiting for jingling keys at the door, she replies with a simple "i have you for a daughter, you don't have kids."

her body is leaning in for a hug, but i can't take it this morning. i know how mean it is to block shows of affection. but it hurts people more when i let them touch me and my body doesn't respond. i make my move towards the coffee machine.

"what are your plans today?"
"nothing."
"how is school going?"
"it is not."
"should i be worried?"
"yes."
"you have got to be kidding me."
"i am only kidding myself."
"you have to graduate this year."
"i don't have to do a goddamn thing."

i sound like a difficult teenager. that, right there, is enough to be depressed. but i am bitter this morning. i am not bitter for all the sacrifices i've made, i'm bitter for i know i would make them all over again. it is funny for i rarely make sacrifices, and the ones i've made were always logical in some sense. i'm bitter for i did things that were in direct contradiction with my instincts.

i don't even remember the silent sacrifices that were made to protect and hold. i am not in the habit of calling them sacrifices for my being wants to protect and my love wishes to hold. however i remember the impossible things that were asked of me. my soul would ache and my eyes would sink in deep. i would oblige, but i couldn't comprehend why i was asked to do those things.

years ago, i was seeing a psychiatrist. i remember sitting in her cramped office with my hands on my lap. there were no tears in my eyes; i hadn't yet met the man who taught me how to cry again. i had asked her "why?" i wanted her to tell me why i keep holding on, why i agree to pointless stuff with the hope of salvaging things; i wanted to know why i had to die before i could leave. i remember her serious face. she had said "you taught yourself to hold on. you wouldn't have survived the traumas you survived if you didn't believe there was hope until the last breath." there it was; the mechanism that had saved me over and over again would simultaneously destroy other parts of me…

it kills mother when i am like this. she likes it when i am full of good wishes and hope. she would even prefer my anger to this silent dark hole that sucks the life force out of her. i shake the thought away, i am tired and i do not care.

every time i go into the bathroom i put my head under the cold water. i let it freeze my aching scalp for a few minutes. as water drips from my hair i look into the mirror with indifferent eyes:

"what you were
will not happen again.

the tigers have found me
and I do not care."

let me erase
every word
i've written.

let me erase
every sigh,
every smile.

i have
no use
for them.

the mirrors are
laughing at me;
make them stop.

confessions full of jack

i am wary of people who describe themselves;
i am weary of describing myself.

confessions full of jack

i lead a pretty sheltered life. the ideas i harbor do not feed on current events; they don't feed enough to blossom and have an impact. it is quite possible that i will never become a productive member of society.

i still hold on to a few hope crumbs. maybe i won't feel the need to be so self-absorbed for the rest of my life.

confessions full of jack

i have a to-do-list of the to-do-lists i need to make.

confessions full of jack

i tend to blame myself when things go wrong. and i don't get it when people describe this behaviour as self-derogatory. at best it is being obsessed with control, but mainly it is just a narcissistic tendency. can't you see; i am telling you that a single different act on my part had the power to make everything all better. i have delusions of grandeur not self-hatred.

i twirl on purple grass
and write ballads on white hills.

(intentions are moot
if the actions fail.)

- hey, girl. what do you want tonight?
- i want a tattoo.
- i don't know why i bother asking. you'll drink whatever i give you.

a typical conversation with my favourite bartender.

the words that slip off my fingertips,
the words that i form and release,
the feelings i refuse to hold on to,
the thoughts that need to be aligned
are the main reasons for my sanity.

yes, i define myself as sane;
because everyday i question if i have slipped or not.

when was the last time you asked yourself if you have gone cuckoo?

i don't know when it was that i started hating my room, i am not sure about the day it became a strong repellent. and no, i don't remember how long it lasted, but i like it again. at least i don't flinch every time i walk in, at least my heart doesn't keep rhythm to the clock. i organize a shelf or a drawer every day. and with every little object that passes through my fingers i realize that i like who i am... against all odds, i am pretty close to being the woman i wanted to become. i might have to sprint for the last remaining 500m, i might have to crawl, it might be the hardest thing i'll have to do, but i'll get it done.

i didn't just grow old it seems, i actually grew up a little bit.

i was such a judgmental little bitch, impatient, self-absorbed, jealous and vindictive. anger fueled me, sarcasm was the only tongue i used. i didn't know how to love, for i was consumed by hate. i am not saying i got rid of all those emotions, some are eternally mine; i am just saying i did a good job of filing the sharpest corners. i probably will always remain sharper than most, but i am glad i can't hold on to anger anymore. it is much more easier to let things be. it is much more rewarding to let the world fuck up.

there was this one sleepless night where i sat in the empty bathtub thinking i would never be able to sleep a natural deep sleep again. drinking and drugging myself to sleep for a lifetime didn't sound so appealing. i was trying to figure out if i would be able to hold on to my sanity if it were to become my reality.

there was this one sleep that shook my existence with the worst nightmares, a chain of unfathomable fears that wouldn't let me wake up. i screamed so loud my lover fell off the bed. i screamed so loud i didn't have any voice to cry with when i woke up. tears and shivers and bitten lips… my lover tried to hold me, i couldn't be sure i've really woken up; i wouldn't let him near me. that was the night i started to wonder if i were doomed to sleep alone till death. how could i impose my nightmares upon a kind soul whose only fault was to love me?

i had many nights of deep sleep since then.
i had many nights of silent bliss.

i know how it feels to be at the end of your rope.
i know what it means to decide never to let go.

death is very close to me; it is death, not joy, that gives me vitality.
shaping your character is messy, but it is fun to choose who you want to be.

"a" day

i was feeling affectionate;
then antipathy took over;
now i am anesthetized.

i want striped socks,
striped t-shirts and striped sweatshirts.

my hoodies and pants may remain solid
but i want streaks of colours over the rest.

striped hats, striped scarves;
i mean to hurt your eyes...

bedtime stories: bullshit

"Bullshit"

She kept repeating that word as I kept talking. "Bullshit." We were having a conversation about love, understanding, camaraderie, forgiveness, soul mates... A conversation I’d rather not be having. She knew it, too. That’s why she kept pushing. Every turn I took away from the subject she grabbed me by the hair and brought me back. She sensed my soul retreating back into its hole deep inside my mind. She heard my twisted logic working overtime. She saw me not-giving-a-fuck; so she took a hold of my shoulders and started to shake me silly. She knew this cycle way too well. She knew I would eventually emerge from the deep-freeze state I was putting myself into, but this time she wouldn't have it. She wanted me alive, laughing and loving and forgiving. She loved me when I seized life by the waist and showered her with kisses. She didn't like it when I danced for the darkness; eyes fierce, arms keeping everyone away, crouches and shoulders and a mask for a face. She loved me when I danced out of pure joy; hips, jumps, twirls, smiles and arms reaching out for the others, touching them, inviting them, silently but animatedly loving them.

"You can love without showing it."
"Bullshit."
"I don't believe in soul mates."
"Bullshit."
"Nobody really forgives; I certainly don't."
"Bullshit."
"Having an understanding of human nature, and figuring out the reasons behind an act doesn't necessarily mean you'll forgive it."
"Bullshit."

I was really full of it -it being shit- I was overflowing with it according to her. I didn't say it out loud, yet I thought I smelled just fine.

I wasn't even going to meet with her; I had cancelled our plans to go out drinking. She pulled out one of her favor cards. I owed her many favors, she owed me more. But it was carved in stone that you can't pull out a favor card in retaliation to the one the other pulls. I had to go. My refusal would collapse the tower of cards, and I liked them. I liked knowing I could call her if I have to and demand her to see me at any time. That’s how the system worked. If I refused now, she could refuse later. The cards were a safety net I wouldn't dare burn.

There we were, stuck in a conversation without any loop holes. She was determined to break me; I was determined to exhaust her. She had been manipulated and tricked out of conversations by me so many times that she wouldn't budge. Too frequently I had pretended to agree with her so now she wouldn't be fooled. "You patronizing ass" she said, "how dumb do you take me for?" "Dumb enough to love me," is what I almost said, and then I bit my tongue. She would get started on low self-esteem... That line of thought wouldn't save me from the conversation I wanted so much to flee from; it would just give her a new set of ammo. That’s when she smiled and leaned her shoulder on mine. We have been sitting side by side all this time, having this conversation without eye contact, heads tilted towards one another, darting glances around the bar. Her shoulder touched mine and she whispered. "Loving you is the smartest thing I’ve done my entire life, you idiot. You are the bestest friend anyone could have. You are the cutest little pet anyone could keep. I’ve left you out on the streets way too long, it seems. But we'll get you cleaned up and cuddly in no time." Yes, this is how she addressed my low self-esteem, what she thought was low self-esteem, by comparing me to a lost kitten... All I could manage to say was "it should be illegal to know someone this well." She knew what I didn't say, I knew what she meant. I wondered if she knew I was thinking about cutting her head open just then. I wanted to touch the brain which deciphered my muscle movements; I wondered if I cut it open and squished my fingers around, would I know for sure if this sense of connection was an illusion or not.

She kept saying things like:
"You are not an android."
"Stop denying your heart."
"This is not healthy."
"You have so much love to give."
"How can you even think this?"
"Get a hold of yourself."
"You are trying to avoid getting hurt."
"Be true to your soul."

She wouldn't give up, and anything I said was "bullshit." She wanted to break me alright. Yet it was impossible while she was in denial of my darkness. I was everything she thought I was, but it was as if she could only see certain shades. The deep-freeze state she feared so intensely was a glitch that needed to be taken care of; my eagerness to be frozen was a disease she yearned to cure. I looked at her hands as she tried to explain, one hand was trying to claw a hole through her jeans, the other was holding onto her first glass of beer. I had just ordered my fourth.

"Bullshit." I finally said it. I had always been extra kind with her. I knew she loved me more than she would ever admit. Telling her I didn't believe in soul mates may be a little mean; maybe I rip her heart open every time I tell her I want to be left alone. Holding her when she cried might have been such a little consolation compared to what her body actually desired. Yet I had never made any comments about her feelings for me. Not once did I call her out on her distorted definition of best friends. She always said she admired my honesty. Did she know being totally honest means to be unmerciful mostly? A cuddly, bubbly little creature can't be honest unless it doesn’t mind using its claws.

"Bullshit." I finally said. "When I tell you I don't believe in soul mates, I am talking about the world wide understanding of the term. Of course my soul connects with people, and if that connection is right it endures all things. But the world tells you there is only one of those, and you should try to find that person. You should make sure you found the right one; you should make sure to stay together forever and ever. The world sends you on this wild goose chase after an ideal that is tainted by lust and whim and weak minds. The world pities you if you don't find your soul mate, and belittles you if you call the wrong person that. And if by sheer luck you find that connection, the world presents you with a set of rules that crushes and weakens the souls that were meant to mate. They feed you this illusion that everything will be peachy with your soul mate by your side. Not one soul is completely innocent, not one soul is entirely good. Shouldn’t I find someone who can mate with the evil in me, too? When we mate wouldn’t we be giving birth to some doom and gloom?”

"Bullshit" I finally said. "You keep telling me to be true to my soul, my heart. What about yours? I know you hate bars, I know you hate drinking. But you made yourself believe that I am only truly happy when I drink, so you won't even accept an invitation to go to the movies. You do what you hate to make me happy. There’s selflessness in that maybe, maybe if you do it occasionally it is a loving act; but if this has become the norm, if this is the only way we interact, it can only mean you think I wouldn't love you unless you constantly make me happy. Talk about low self-esteem."

"Bullshit" I finally said. "You think you are in love with me, you think we are soul mates. Yet you rationalize every unkind thing I say, and refuse the malice in me. How can we mate while you won't open your eyes and see me totally?"

Her fingers relaxed, and she put the beer glass on the table. She pulled my face close to hers and looked deep into my eyes.

"You are not frozen anymore. Now we shall dance."
“Who knows, maybe our connection is not an illusion after all.”
“Bullshit.”

letting someone fall for you when you have little love to give them is a truly selfish act, with a hint of malice.

me no need no poker face

i don't know how to play poker,
but i used to have the perfect poker face,
the one i pulled out of the hat on demand;
i used it to save my ass again and again.

now i can't even bother to mask all those little mimics that swim through. / why should i?
there are only so many possible feelings, yet they grow from a thousand roots.
yes, i am amused; yes, i am pissed; yes, i am feeling rather sad. / my my, do tell me why.

writing material

i write on my arms; mother asks if i ran out of paper.

i write on my legs; sister asks if i meant to cut them open.

i write on my lips; boy asks if i missed being kissed.

i tattoo fears on my heart;
nobody asks a goddamn thing.

this fear is sad. whenever it comes to visit, my eyes droop down and the corners of my mouth reach for the drains. 

what if i am too messed up already, what if my heart is the biggest mistake ever made?

the animal

(howl into my ear;
give me your claws.
i want the animal in you;

in you i shall nest.)

take your clothes off, take them off for me.
let me see the scars and the marks,
those dark moles and faint sun spots.

i want to memorize the way your fur grows.
i want to tickle my cheeks with your goosebumps.
let me count the bruises and the cuts.

i'll bless them with names;
i'll lick away the blood stains.
we can lie skin to skin for days.

i have enough kisses for your brows and lashes,
for nails, teeth and toes, for thighs and knees;
in your curves and dents i'll nuzzle my nose.

let me see your skin dance.
through and around; your every breath performs,
through and around, an ancient holy chant.

i don't want your dreams; forget the ifs and the maybes.
all those regrets you carry are nothing but sad stories.
you don't have to utter a single word,

your body holds all the promises.
don't tell me any secrets, hold your confessions;
just take your clothes off, take them off for me.

there are somethings you shouldn't share with anyone.
somethings mean more if you keep it in your chest,
your chest of memories guarded by your infamous ribs.

being obsessed with words doesn't really help,
that obsession demands you to express yourself.
you don't write everything afraid they might be read,
but the words that align themselves into sentences
surprise you when you least expect it.
you utter those words when you are off guard.
you leave your sentences here and there
in the company of strangers.
your lips remember the taste as they came out;
your eyes never forget the faces as they listened to you.
as you walk away you ache with the need
the need to pull the words back into you.

you are not less because of it,
you are not more.
you feel scattered, out of control.
knowledge is power in your book;
you think they have power over you.

haven't you learned by now,
don't you already know, sweet child?
if the words hold the true power of hurting you
you never let them out of your chest.
you have always guarded your softest spots,
just like you covered your head
when all those blows came raining down on you.

you already know,
you guard yourself.
you guard your heart,
you guard the little demons
that live down in the cellars
of your vast, dark dreams.
if you speak of them,
if they manage to get out,
you know it within,
the receiver will never,
never ever use them,
use them to crush you;
or it is you carrying the dead out
to be buried in a stranger's chest.
the dead has no power over you.
 
if those words you yourself formed
causes pain that demands tears,
it is because you know how to mourn
those dead little brats of yours.

i have a feeling i would make an excellent lumberjack. maybe after building my house, building my life , i could adopt a girl nobody wants. i wouldn't think me weak for loving her unconditionally, and maybe she would manage to mend some of the wounds of desertion. i would tell her to be careful, she would tell me to fuck off. i'd live modestly and put aside some money for the day she wants to make her own way in this world... she would believe in her strength, for i would tell her stories of my weak youth, for i would tell her stories of how i grew the right muscles to survive. she would resent me for running away from the city, but thus she would know you don't have to stay anywhere forever. the only place you can't ever leave is your own head, she would know to spare her energy to better align her thoughts, better understand her feelings... i have a feeling i would make an excellent lumberjack.

or a fisherman, maybe if i became a fisherman i would learn to look at fish heads without trying to suppress the urge to run away...

the woods are calling me
the dark and the humanless rhapsody

i know it, the scream is rising from within
i feel it, my eyes are hovering thunder clouds
everynight i hug the pillows and fall to dreaming
a michievous smile on my face
a quick flicker of the eyelashes
i write my scenarios and direct them in sleep

people get scared when i tell them
they don't know how it is 
sometimes i just have the power to control
to direct, rewrite, reroute what my mind sees
they get scared and choose to think me lying
"sure" one says, "oh really" utters another
i keep on telling them of my dreams
eyes grow bigger and quick glances get exchanged
"you should write these", somebody says
"i write what i want, you can write them if you like"
i smile, i look down, i look up again
they got angry a second ago
i am not just a liar anymore
i am a smartass, too
the familiar freak of a big city
they are trying to decide what to do with me
but no, nobody walks away at this point
i am still entertaining, and i haven't shed any blood yet

the woods, the woods are calling
i know you can't hear
not one sound makes it through
i bubble and boil and keep walking
i am strong, i am steady
i dream what i like
you can't get to me

"never apologize.
never explain."

i forgot about it today...tomorrow is a new beginning, no? maybe tomorrow i'll wake up fresh and new and able. maybe in the morning i will feel "enough." do i even remember a time i felt like that? i do, of course i do.

do you remember a time i was enough for you? you don't, of course you don't.

remember when you loved me

it is one of those days. i don't want to read. i don't want to write. i don't want to talk. if i tried to smile today i'd probably look like a meat crazed wolf. if i pushed myself, my creation process would hit a wall of anger. and yes, the blood boiling inside is too hot to expose.

unfortunately all the paying and school work i have on my to-do-list demand some sort of creativity or objective analysis. it is a very subjective day today. hate and anger could blind me if i didn't know myself so well... i am a good experimenter/learner on days like these. so i've been playing around the photoshop and running through tutorials all day long. trying all kinds of things and saving the results as i go, leaving the question of which one is better to a more objective day.

the photo above is a result of my mechanical actions. i have 27 different versions of it. this one was number 13, and i didn't close it's window as i made my way up to 27. stealing glimpses between each one, it was obvious that this one was tickling my belly from inside.

3 hours later it still hadn't left my insides, but i couldn't trust my judgement today. i sent it to a friend. the subject line read "playing around" the e-mail read "mucu."

she responded with a mere "different." i dissected the word, it turned out it wasn't "what-the-hell-is-this different" or "shitty different" or "interesting different". this one was different in a "neat" way. and no, i have no idea what that means.

she said "submit it;" i said "find a name."

yesyes, you are right, "remember when you loved me" was what she came up with. honestly i can't see the connection. i don't even know if she meant "remember when you loved me?" or "i remember when you loved me."

so this photo tickles my insides and makes a friend remember a long-lost love...

"never apologize.
never explain."

it is kind of late to try to wrap my head around this... i've been working on "less apologies, less explanations" for over a year now; but "no apologies and no explanations" sounds a bit extreme, don't you think?

before you say hello
you should know
what i am famous for

(i can't cook to please your boss
i can't sing or play to feed your ears
i dance, but i don't tango or polka or waltz
i am not known to hold down a job
and am not likely to get filthy rich
my skin and flesh might actually be
the only soft spots you'll ever get to see)

i am nothing exceptional
except for those words i utter
except for those words that slip
those words that mostly get dismissed
but reappear once i am gone and done with

let my hair grow waves
let my hands grow peace
let my heart grow and heal and forget

a part of me is still waiting for a miracle
/i am lucky i don't have faith

somedays it is pointless to try to tame my feelings with the whip of logic. and knowing 'this, too, shall pass' only aggravates the itch. 

pity, all this love, all this yearning could have made gods of us; we could have created our own universe. but now i have to watch my hands closely so they don't destroy this one in their frenzy.

i would have written a thousand poems
on top of those armies of paragraphs.
i would have folded the world up
so we could meet day and night.

cellblock
©jack

paper doves play 
on my purple lake.
next, i shall make
blood-red swans,
tattoo a kiss 
on each wing
and flare'em up.

seven messages i wrote
seven messages i erased

sometimes i fill with an urge to speak up my mind,
to tell everyone what i really think sans the sugar coating.
naaah, nobody really gives a shit, and most souls avoid change,
so i just nod and grunt and mind my own business.

yesyes, talking is overrated while we are all lost in our own little vocabularies. 
how can i expect you to understand me while you know zilch about my definitions?

most of your problems have solutions, honey.
you might not like them, but they are solutions nevertheless.
are you tired of your own voice? just stop talking.
do you feel detached? make yourself useful.
do you feel unlovable? you are not, don't be an idiot.
are you sick of comparing yourself with others? stop caring.
do you believe you'll die alone? hang out with more people.
have you forgotten how to laugh? read a comic book.
are you feeling unworthy of attention? just give yours away, you'll realize it mostly means zilch.
do you feel disappointed all the time? try fulfilling your simple wishes.
are you too cynical? keep that, there is nothing wrong with cynicism.
do you find yourself saying "i knew it" frequently? start trusting your instincts.
are you drained because of an obsession? change your daily routine.
do you not like the city you live in? move. move as soon as possible.
do you feel unhealthy? smoke less, exercise more.
are you tired? take a nap.

most of your problems have solutions, honey. solve them, go on, don't be shy.  
solve them so you'll have the energy to bear with the unsolvable problems life throws at you.
and smile. (i beg of you.)

ps: or you can work your ass off and ignore them all.

"giving up" suggests the existence of a possibility, may it even be the remotest kind. but i never stood a chance...this is more like "coming to terms with reality."