from the verses.

the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

//

the muttering retreats/ of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels.

//

be mindful in due time of my pain.

//

 

Advertisements

01:46 pm

i want someone to notice
i want someone to see how it is here
how i’m just another metaphor for a garbage bin
on the far end of the street
i want someone to hold me in the right place
and tell me that i’m going to be okay
i want someone to see how it is
how it really is
that i’m not exaggerating
that i’m not okay
that i’m trying really hard to keep myself alive right now
that i don’t know how not to stay alive
that everything is chaotic right now
i can’t listen to my own breathing
everyone is screaming
everything is screaming
and i’m terribly claustrophobic
but i want to lock myself in the smallest box i could find
close my ears tight
and i don’t know how to end this poetry
if it’s okay to end poetry in the middle of a sentence
but i don’t know how to
i just want to look at you and smile ma
i just want to sit in the same room as everybody else
i just want to talk about how my brother called me today
or how we went to a movie together
i just want to talk to somebody at this house
about today’s breakfast
i just want to ask when’s dinner
when i’m hungry
and not be scared to.

thank you, finch.

finch,
remember when you took me inside my closet and we sat there all night drawing stars on its walls? we wondered if anyone would find the stars once we were gone. we pushed all my jackets to one side and you made me some kind of cozy chair with a blanket on the dark side of my closet? you know finch, that, right then, i was not scared of the dark?
that day, when you said you loved me looking at my hands, i remembered something someone told me.
that closets are like some people. they go unnoticed.
and i know it’s true.
you know why?
because,
i wear sweaters made of poetry warmer than the wool.
i wear scarves made of more than two rounds of late night conversations.
i wear boots for rain-soaked installments of crying on the phone.
i wear bracelets made of stones harder than the way i’m trying to stay happy.
i wear rings to hide my bruises on the knuckles.
and i wear skirts shorter than my hair.
all to go unnoticed when they fall on the floor of my closet.
but you,
you finch, you noticed them.
when everyone else made fun of my closet, i kept thinking they meant the sweater or the boots.
what i didn’t know that for them, i was the one that didn’t look inside the closet. not my sweater.
so i kept checking how my hair looked or if my nails are the correct electric blue.
i didn’t like closets anymore, finch.
but you sat with me inside one, mine, drawing stars, and i wouldn’t trade it for anyone to notice us.

your violet.

 

04:37 pm

when i was little, i had lived in the mountains enough to know that the sun rises first on your hand if you’re early to the top. and one morning, i ran all the way to our little house on the hilltop to tell my mother that all the kids were wrong. that i knew how to hold the sun in my palms if i climbed the highest mountain. i wanted to show her. but she didn’t come. she didn’t believe me.

a few days later, i asked my father to show me how to hold the moon, so he took me to the middle of the lake outside our house. and that night, i held the moon inside my hand when i played with the water underneath. i told him that all the kids were wrong. that you can see the moon if you jumped into the water. he didn’t let me. he didn’t believe me.

but no one told me
that the sun doesn’t always rise where you want it to.
that the moon doesn’t always reach your feet when you’re drowning.

maybe, the kids were right.
i know they were.
i just,
i didn’t believe them.

i wrote a poem today only for us.

dear finch,
if someone asked me what my poetry is about,
I’d tell them I write about us,
breathing in love,

that,

Sometimes, missing you
feels like holding an empty alcohol bottle while
drowning in the sea,
I’m trying to mix water
with the little bit of alcohol left in it
but I can’t
do anything.

it feels like swinging without the wind in my hair
but I go higher and higher and everything is dazed,
and beautiful,
I can feel my chest turning into the purple sky
and suddenly, I’m away from the ground
and nobody is pulling me down.

it’s wearing skinny jeans in front of neon sign roads
and dancing to
music that doesn’t exist
hoping that sometime,
maybe someone could see those lights flicker
with me
and I’m not left with
cars with cold headlights hitting me
alone in the streets.

I’d tell them I write poetry about love because we breathe in it.

I’d tell them I know love like I know which side of my bed
is the coldest.

but, I’d tell them I also write poetry about love when we’re breathing under black waters.

We know exactly how it feels to see
unknown figures in your head at 3 in the and the coldest side of our bed feels unfamiliar.

I write about waiting for love
across different roads and directions
I write about the street signs missing
and the directions turning gray when we’re waiting for a home,
we almost give up.
I write about

giving up
but not getting close to it
every time we try
because what we’re waiting for,
is something even
bigger than what we believe in.

I write about the other side of love
The other side of the bed
The warmer one
where the moon feels like nothing much than
The tiny dot in our phone camera.

I don’t know what to write about love sometimes

it’s not sunrises and sunflowers
not black and white printed papers or carpenter wood either

it’s love, ours,
like how we know it
and others don’t.

like how you and I wake up to it and nothing seems lost anymore.

The poetry I write,
about love and everything in its essence, fails to experience everything that we have.

what others see as sunrise, to us, is the sleeping moon,
photographs to others in pretty lights, to us, is reading poetry silently,
rain to others, finding the place where it falls, to us.

and finch,
I’ll tell you,
I write about us all the time,
like we’re breathing in love,
but really,
I can never write about
everything we exist in
breathing in
something more than love.

 

your violet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

16.09.2017

at 7 am today, a boy flew 945 miles and some to surprise a girl he calls Christmas.
and yesterday, he called it, Christmas Eve.
I was talking with the boy at 2 am, asking him if he’s counting the hours like it was Christmas and he told me he did. he told me it felt like Christmas Eve.
and her, Christmas herself.
it had been one year since they held each other’s hand because it turned out they had to walk along grave roads if they had to give each other flowers.
or if they had to share mint flavored ice cream.
so they loved through the mail from 2015 to 2017, the boy sending the girl bracelets made of cobalt blue stones, and her, she used to have trouble going to the post office because she gets lost asking for directions.
but she sent him love made out of postcards showing the places she didn’t visit.
like the place, he was in, and she wasn’t.
So today, I gave the girl a map with directions to the airport and when he arrived, holding a bouquet full of happiness and not flowers made out of paper, he brought with him the first plane ticket he bought for a place he really loved.

a place resembling a person.

and I took a Polaroid picture of them.
I wrote under it,

christmas in summer.