not be stupid
on 19th of that month
with thumb caressing
on that rectangular box
making lover out of a contact number,
ears thirsty for that voice
and eyes red as a bride
whose groom forgot to visit her.
Go easy on yourself
and smell fresh flowers again
and this time, without them around,
in the same coffee shop,
on 19th, when you first met them
not be blue
at 1 am, after work
when they are winning the world
and you sit at the corner of your sofa
shrinking your bones into yourself
grating your muscles over rough presentations
loaning your smile to your future self
in a hope, your decades-after self
would smile more and probably, live more.
because that’s how hope works
for future, not for now.
I’d say give up hope
and take hold of the living substance in you, now.
It’s either mascara in your eyes
or pain. Don’t let both reside
and live a smudged life,
understood by none
not even by yourself.
those seeds that you grew but
somebody acquired the land,
the mouths that you fed
but now take pride peeling you behind your back,
the walls wherein you wanted to melt yourself
but felt so cold, and so distant, and suicidal
that your home became the cauldron
and you the red meat.
Leave the city. Move to a new place.
Grow a plant, grow your hair,
place your happy feet
among plums and not homicides.
Where the air is white
and the Sun thickens your skin.
Where your echoes praise you
and your blood doesn’t betray you.
Where you fix yourself like a god
and nurse your broken wings like a goddess.