Cleaning up the mess you left.

When you left without a word, I thought it was my destiny. For someone who obsesses a lot on goodbyes, it felt like it was what I deserved – a no goodbye leaving. Thinking this, I quickly locked your room without giving a second glance. I had no energy to look at the mess you’d created, the papers on the floor, the clothes on the bed, the broken pieces of my heart all over.

For as long as I could, I went on with my life as if nothing happened. Nobody knew about us to begin with, we were the secret stories our friends hushed over the movie. So it wasn’t that hard. I even carried on sitting across the table from you in the cafeteria and pretended not to notice your occasional glances.

“Are you okay?” you once cornered in the corridor to ask.
“Why do you ask?” I questioned you instead.
“I have never been better,” I cut you off and walked away, holding myself together more than ever.

I read a lot during that time. About men. About women. About relationships that lasted and the ones that never did. I also read about heartbreaks. About being strong. About not letting the ones who walked away to have the power to control you. I read books. I read articles. I read poems like my life depended on it. And each of them told me to be strong, to realize that people come and go, what matters is me.

So, every time you sat across me in the cafeteria, or beside me during the lectures, or in the same group as me for an assignment, I recited the stories and the poems to myself again and again so as not to open up to you. Not to let the comfort of your warm body melt me. Not to let you take a peek of my milky skin longing for your touch or how dry my mouth has been, thirsty for the taste of your lips. It took everything in me to not to let you see how much you hurt me. That if you must or by chance you did see me hurting with anger and sadness, I wanted you to see it wasn’t because of you but the homesickness I always felt once in a while when the tides are fuller or because of my unconceived child slowly leaving my body or because someone, somewhere was hurting and I couldn’t do anything about it.

Of course I slipped, like any human does. There were times when I got drunk and kissed you or if I remember correctly, I became so ruthless that you left the party without a word, a goodbye. Or that one time, when I refused to even say hello. Otherwise, I was good at pretending to be just fine. I remember how quickly we went back to become the perfect lab partners we were a year ago. I went on as if you and I never happened; like as if you never mattered that much.

But today, I decided to open up the room you left in hurry. There are spider webs all over the wall and layers of dust everywhere.Today, I told myself I am ready to clean the mess you left. I am ready to flood the room with my tears if they hadn’t dried up already after being held in every time they’d wanted to rain before. Today, I collect the pieces you left scattered and today, I want to put everything together. Some pieces still have sharp edges, the memories pinch me as if it was just yesterday, like our kiss under the full moon. And by deciding to finally mourn for the heart you left broken, I hope that I am on my way to healing, that I will be able to finally let go of your grasp, fully.


Sweet Talk.

Validate me with your sweet talk. Compliment on how my curls are working for me, each strand spreading out across my chest. Comment on my black dress hugging my body and its delicate cream flower patterns. On my red lips and my dangling golden leaved earrings. On how they make you feel, every inch of my skin, as my cold winter hands, slips into yours.

Lie to me on how you’ve never met anyone else, who would laugh with you in your jokes – on death, pain and sickness. Who could discuss with you on whether darkness is absence of the light or shadow is the darkest dark there is. On whether electron behaves like a particle or a wave (it behaves as both duh!). On the dominant genes you have (tallness, and curly hair are dominant by the way; not sure about your goofy smile).

Whisper to me how I excite you just by my laugh. How you can’t wait to dig inside of me, deeper than the darkest ocean. Explore every inch of my skin, vaster than the infinite universe. Love me like no man has ever done, nor will they ever do.

Validate me with your sweet talk.

For tonight, I will drink every word from your mouth as if they were sips of elixir I need to survive. I will savor your every move, from your hands to your eyes, undressing me inside-out. On this cold lonely night when there is a fire burning inside of me, of anger and guilt and hatred, I will take anything you give. Because right now,  for me, five seconds of the superficial bliss is better than spending a night full of self loathe.




Thirteen and half years old me wanted to travel around the world and write. She wanted to be a single mother by the time she was 30, she didn’t care if she ended up being alone. She wanted to fix the climate change. She wanted to stop global warming and prevent the earth from being destroyed by humans. She wanted to know what happiness felt like.

Sixteen and half years old me wanted to preserve the endangered wildlife, the tigers and the lions, the snow leopards and the elephants. She wanted to go to Africa and learn about chimpanzees and lions. She wanted to go to Siberia to look at the birds during summer. She dreamed of having adventures of a lifetime.

Nineteen and half years old me got her first heartbreak by an almost best friend who ghosted her when she was far away from home, sick. By that time, she’d wanted to save the world – prevent wars and abdicate hunger. She wanted to be a wanderer, roaming around aimlessly at times. She’d started doubting if happiness even existed.

Twenty two and half years old me realized she was afraid of being alone and single. That when she was alone, she almost gave up because she was not ready to adult yet. She also decided that motherhood is not for her. She didn’t want her children to know the pain of losing a mother. “The more people you know, the more pain you get” became her philosophy. So, she shut herself off and pushed people away only to realize her solitude acts as venom. She thought that happiness isn’t worth it at all.

Twenty five and half years old me wants to travel the world again. And write. And learn. And experience it all over again. She wants to be a mother, and isn’t scared about being  single. She is ready to be a single mother before she crosses thirty three; because, otherwise, complications. She is finally sorted in her life. She has friends who stood with her when she completely fell apart. She knows what she wants to do in her life (i.e, travel and write and be a museum curator if possible) and how to do it (hello master’s degree!). She, for the first time in life, has Plan B if Plan A fails. She is in love and still heartbroken but she knows that at the end of the day, she will be okay. She is finally happy.

Thirteen and half years old me is kinda proud of twenty five and half years old me. Because sooner or later, I will have done everything I’ve wanted to do as a kid. Maybe, I might do them less frequently than I’d hoped and wished for but I will still be reading, writing, traveling and growing. Because I will not have given up on my dreams. Because I will find happiness. And that is enough and will be enough. For now. For always.


It’s okay to miss you.

I never thought I would cry about you. I never thought that I would miss you so much that I would break down in the middle of the road. I never thought that unable to hold my tears any longer but not wanting to cause any trouble, I would walk away from everyone else and find a corner for myself to cry, saying I’m sorry.

I don’t know to whom was I asking for forgiveness, was it you or was it me? Or was it no one exactly? But I was sorry. For not having enough courage to tell you that I loved you when I had time. For not making more memories, that I would have passed down to my kids one day, of a man who shaped me for who I am. For not laughing with you on your silly jokes and for not sharing my own sillier ones.

I never thought I would cry about you. But I did. Second time was past midnight, when I was all prepared to go back home. I never thought I would remember that you ended up being the one who waited for me to be back home. You used to call me when I was on my way to check where I had reached so that you could be home when I was home. It wasn’t always like this. You were never home but you were learning and you were trying and you were mending. And now, there would never be you to go back home to.

I never thought I would cry about you. That I would miss you. That I would notice you were gone again. But I did. And after crying for an hour or more, when my tears dried up like a monsoon flood, I was thankful and happy. Because crying for you meant that I missed you. Missing you meant that I had loved you. I never fully accepted my love for you and I was finally allowing myself to do that.

I never thought I would cry about you but I did. And that’s all that matters for now.

I know it seems hard at times. Times like these when nothing seem to go in a right way. You seem to feel all the wrong feelings, mostly emptiness and nothing. You don’t like what you do or produce or feel and every night you wish it were to be the last one.

The thing is you never know how many people love you or were touched by you or were inspired. How many people are waiting to read your next poem or see your next artwork or listen to your next song. For you, these works might not mean anything but for them, it might be their only hope.

And it’s okay to die. That is the whole point of life anyway. Everything we do leads to death. But it’s nicer to live. To feel. Even the emptiness you feel right now. To sleep. To eat. To travel. To meet strangers on the road and have them give you some warmth of their fire. To talk. to drink. To read. To work on more shitty blog posts. For a change, it’s always better to live for oneself – for one more pint of beer, for one more story of your favorite author, for one more word you’ve not written yet. For one more night of warm blanket under the white ceiling where you promised to paint the universe one day.