He wouldn’t follow the days, he would cry.
If only the hours passed, just the hours.
Again, those old thoughts would get stuck in his head.
He had no respect for anyone.
(Especially not for himself.)
He’d seem very angry, but
(Again, not at anyone, just himself,
Because everything that happened to him, came from himself.)
But he would think,
Sometimes, maybe,
I don’t know.
Who knows what.
He was a little fond of women.
Not too many, just one.
There was one, though,
He gave up on her, thinking he might save her.
He couldn’t keep up with himself.
The bad, wrong,
Temporary,
Base,
Selfish,
Ish,
Me,
Nobody,
Decisions he made,
He didn’t want to drag anyone
Under this massive snow.
Not because he didn’t try,
But because he was digging his own grave.
Good or bad,
He didn’t know.
He usually didn’t know.
He liked to look like he knew a lot,
But he never did.
And he didn’t even want to know,
Everything seemed too complicated.
He liked girls (he hated himself).
The girl liked him (then he pitied the girl).
Sometimes, he would think he was God,
He knew everything.
He knew life,
He knew death,
He knew the unknown,
He knew what was right.
There was maybe nothing he didn’t know.
He would say, "There must be,
But it’s not worth knowing."
He didn’t want help,
Would drink water but never take medicine,
Would get sick but never go to a doctor,
Would run away from needles.
Not because he was afraid,
But because he thought he was God.
And at the end,
Like every god,
When he realized he contradicted himself,
He would swear to end everything he had created.
But again, like every god,
He also loved chaos, the bad.
He loved threatening the parts of himself
That he had created.
He loved watching them die,
Maybe even supporting it.
Not killing, but not living either,
He loved it.
A true god/scientist.
A man, yes.
Unseen, unaccountable,
Not an animal.
A humanoid being,
If you ask biologists,
They’ll say "a man," or XY.
If you ask society,
They’d call him a true tick,
A freak,
Useless,
But not necessarily harmful,
A real fool carrying hell on his shoulders.
They’d say that about him.
Everyone would say something,
He thought,
But no one would ever think,
That he was left alone.
He thought he had created an army from himself,
He had no one left to fight with.
Still ongoing,
The umpteenth war of his unique self.
And the soldier wounded in war,
Would we pray?
But there’s no single god,
We tried every kind.
There was a familiar face across.
(Here, every face is familiar.)
They had created new gods for themselves.
They said their prayers.
None of them survived.
We thought we were right.
No, yesterday we buried another familiar face.
But he was from our side, I think.
We had no bullets,
No weapons.
Some tried to fight with fists, but
No.
Sometimes some of us die.
We write on the board here:
"TWELVE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE" "EIGHTEEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE."
One day we’ll win, I know.
I’m not sure what we’ll win.
(But sometimes, it’s just about winning.)
But,
Sometimes,
We are humanity’s crime, each of us.
We are war criminals,
Each of us civilians.
The god we prayed to,
Walks among us because he’s civilian.
He helped us count our dead at first,
Because there are no bodies left.
There’s only one body that doesn’t look like us.
Hair made of blood,
Eyes green and brown like Ankara cats.
(These soldiers only know Ankara and Istanbul,
They haven’t seen other cities, and haven’t seen these cities either.)
She was a beautiful girl,
The biggest loss was that day.
But, she said,
She was our earthly god,
Our greatest gain today.
And those muscles controlling the eyes
Look at a person passing outside.
Don’t you think,
These gods, godlike humans,
That this man walks sharply and carelessly,
Wearing black high-heeled shoes,
With a long purple dress,
And a hood?
Not with high-platform heels,
But like sharp, strong, knife-like weapons,
He walks like a gazelle.
A person passing outside,
A magician,
Throws himself into the fire again.
A magician, a person, a man passing outside,
A real man with masculinity in his heels.
A magician, a person, a man passing outside,
His hood and the breaking of my confidence.
CONFIDENT AND BANG.
HERE, THE HOODED,
MAGICIAN,
WITH A PURPLE ROBE,
A MAN,
A HUMAN,
A WOMAN.
The clothes belong not to him,
He rules the clothes.
Then, he looked in the mirror.
It was time to go home.
His head was filled again.
He looked in the mirror again.
This ugliness, this elegance,
This head, this eye, this hair,
This leg, this arm, this hand,
And the abundance of XY chromosomes.
It was time to go home.
To think,
To live,
To keep up,
Wasn’t for us.
It wasn’t.
Wasn’t.
No.