I.. do not know.

Can’t crumble.

Lately

I feel unbearably overwhelmed,

like a balloon about to burst

yet never bursting.

Tense,

unmoored from the ground.

I tell myself: write.

This is your way of living,

your solution.

But I don’t want to.

I’ve shelved thinking,

shelved writing,

shelved feeling.

All I refuse

and all I cannot refuse

I shove into my mind,

like a pile of clothes hastily thrown into a suitcase,

until they fuse,

harden,

and become too heavy to separate.

They melt together,

intertwine.

Which color belongs to a sock,

which to a hat?

I cannot tell.

Sometimes I pull some thoughts out,

writing only in my mind,

when my hand won’t reach for a pen or phone,

or when I know I’ll give up before it does.

I sulk quickly at every attempt,

Not like kid does it..

no tears,

no stamping,

no pouting.

Fuck it, I say without words.

Words weigh too much.

Every thought,

every word,

every expression

presses harder on my mind.

So I chase them away with my hand

before they hit the ground.

I sway the letters away with shaking my head

before they become words.

I feel drunk

but not from joy,

not from alcohol,

not from drugs.

Poisoned,

slowly,

by the thoughts I’ve absorbed,

by the anger doesn’t belong to me

by the feelings suffocating me.

I walk

maybe walking,

just walking,

might carry a bit of it

to the blue sky,

where it belongs more than to me.

But nothing comes,

after I rise,

after I thank my knees for their reluctant strength

after all the steps

Nothing changes.

Sadness falls instead,

on my shoulders

Soft as

snow.

But too cold.

Then

I sit on stairs,

half facing the view,

half facing houses.

A tearful feeling stirs deep inside,

very deep.

I rest my head on my arms

leaned against my knees.

It never rises,

my eyes never water,

my nose never aches.

On a slope,

crooked,

under the sun,

like a warm stone,

I remain.

I am heavy.

I do not roll.

I want to.

I see the sun,

touching my face,

but it does not sink in.

It does not adorn my thoughts.

It does not bloom a smile on my face.

It carries no meaning.

Inside me,

everything is stuck together.

a huge ball of playdough.

Sometimes,

if I feel it,

a little bit

a sharp sorrow rises.

I clench my teeth, involuntarily.

Trying to stop it.

Why, I ask..

when all I want is to feel?

Because I know

two drops from my eyes

will do me no good.

They will only anger me,

make me feel wronged.

Yet still they fall:

one from each eye,

two drops that should overflow.

They melt at the middle of my cheeks,

and vanish.

No floodgate breaks.

They do not all pour at once.

The dam is still strong.

They want to flow.

I know.

I feel a little pressure in my throat,

but no more.

It is not strong enough to lift the lid.

I do not allow it.

The rest spread through my body,

hands, arms, jaw, forehead.

But none alone

is destructive enough to break.

When people ask me how are you,

either casually,

or when my false resistance slips for a second,

when I find myself staring into nothing

those are the moments I am closest to evaporating.

Evaporating,

free of my weight,

my tension,

my chaos,

ready to rise as pure drops.

Then comes a how are you

always too late,

breaking the ritual,

halting my invisible ascent.

Reluctantly, I turn reality.

“I’m fine.”

It is not a lie.

I am fine.

But also—

I am not?

If I said otherwise,

I know they would try to help.

Maybe sincerely.

But it would mean nothing.

I don’t need that.

I want to be understood

without speaking.

I want the stone under the sun

to roll without thinking twice

and lean on larger stones holding it in place,

I want someone to hug that balloon,

unafraid of its bursting

without questioning

why it’s so inflated.

just being

trully there

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

And I want to say

if there were someone to hold me,

they would already know my emptiness.

They would recognize my muteness.

Because when I had words,

I asked for this many times

politely,

while lying or sitting beside you,

I asked you to wrap your arm around me.

I don’t have words right now,

I can’t ask help

So help is not coming.

The forest is burning

Everyone can see it

The forest can’t scream

So they choose the easiest way

to think

‘forest doesn’t need anything.’

I am not seeking a savior.

No.

Those days are gone.

I only want someone near

to hear

the loud echo of my silence.

I do not want to make others understand me anymore.

I don’t wanna explain

I don’t wanna hear

Not now.

I do not want to speak.

I am tired.

And yet,

I am aware,

A lively lifelessness.

Feeling awful inside but

carrying better than before.

Sometimes I ask:

is this worse?

At least when I was weak,

I could cry.

At least when I could not cry,

I could hurt myself.

The poison in my body used to flow.

Now

I act rational.

Now ı can’t deal with my pain.

Nine out of ten

I wrapped myself and cared,

Handled it.

This is the ‘one’

I can’t continue to being

my own shadow

to rest

to breath.

At least

I just succeed keep me alive

for one more day.

And one more day again.

One more day,

panicked,

rocking myself like a baby in bed,

pressing my tiny clock to my ear,

finding a place between its ticking,

convincing myself I have not vanished,

that I am still here,

reminding my suffocating breaths

of their true purpose.

Sometimes I fall asleep,

but five seconds after opening my eyes,

torture resumes.

I want to close them again.

To shut out the sounds,

the pressure,

consciousness itself.

Not to die.

To not exist.

Sleep does not take me this time.

It is not strong enough.

My mind whispers: take a pill.

I refuse.

It is not right.

It would hurt me more.

I listen.

Another easy escape closes.

Distractions do not help.

I want them quiet too.

I can’t even read book

Because it is too loud.

Too much.

Every word seems to fill a piggy bank in my mind.

No need.

No space.

Do not come.

I cannot bear it.

So I sit.

Turn everything off.

Withdraw.

Stay with myself.

In silence.

Like eating something tasteless but filling,

unpleasant yet heavy inside.

I swell.

I do not speak to myself.

No voices inside.

I suppress them.

No words outside.

I deliberately staying away.

In true silence,

I sit,

feeling my head like cake,

melting,

about to slip from my neck.

But it does not.

It remains.

Heavy.

Full.

Messy.

Damp.

Tasteless.

Colorless.

Uncomfortable.

I know what I could do.

It does not help.

I know what I feel.

It does not help.

I am my closest friend now.

But this time,

it does not help.

I say in my mind: I…

Then stop.

I can’t find the one word

To describe.

I need that one word.

Because If I can

reduce it to one word,

It will be easy afterwards.

Trying..

I’m sa…

I’m b…

I’m I’m I’m

No.

I am alone.

The sentence completes itself.

A truth emerges.

My stomach turns.

I am sick of repeating it.

Stop, I tell myself.

Not this again.

I do not want to hear complaints.

It was not a complaint.

It was truth.

But I guess she realized

the weight behind it..

the weight.

Anger.

Disgust.

Injustice.

Sadness.

Disappointment.

Not at myself,

but like a rebellion

against a dark starry sky.

What is the reason? Why am I alone?

But I do not want to complain anymore.

It does not help.

I know the reason.

Knowing does not help.

The stars I shout at

glimmer: But you are not alone.

Not with anger.

Not with despair.

But with a small,

reassuring smile.

I guess

They recognized me from

the nights

I talked with them.

Laughed with them.

The mulberry tree that

I was angry with my father

because he cut its branches for years,

whenever they reached the garage way

So that they would not scratch the car.

I stroked its severed arms.

I sat beside it countless nights.

Now it sways its leaves gently,

Along the stars.

The stray teenage cat

that nestled beside me on the stairs

the night I pressed my palms

to my eyes

purred beneath my hand

as I cared its tiny body with

falling tears of mine.

The times I chose to stay home,

feeling too heavy to move,

my baby niece, elsewhere,

looked for me among my family,

calling ‘nena, nena?’

Before the sun greeted the day,

the pigeon on the opposite chimney

met my eyes through the window

almost every dawn.

These help, a little.

Sometimes.

Again I say: I…

Searching for a feeling beyond loneliness,

beyond rebellion.

Perhaps I shouldn’t

But I do.

Words line up faintly in my mind.

None entirely right.

None entirely wrong.

Even one word

typed,

then erased with backspace

weighs heavy on my existence.

So I say I…

and on the screen of my mind

a dash waits beside the long

line,

blinking with three dots.

I…

I

I…

I

I do not know..

Reyhan Bulut/Missteria