joi, 14 decembrie 2017

The duelists

On our sixth month anniversary you came home and you said
"Chicken, I bought us matching swords
From now on, when we hurt each other,
We'll both have similar injuries
Cuts of the same depth
And sharpness
Blood mixing together, dirty on the blades
And we'll never wash them
The traces will be left there
For all eternity, so we can remember
Where it started."
One day I decided my sword fit better in the drawer
Than in your heart, so I put it away
When you came for our duels I just said I'd forgotten it
And you cut me all the same
With your own
I couldn't even defend myself
And one day you forgot you're not on a hunt for trophies
And stuck your sword so deep I forgot how to breathe
You got scared and you ran away, you didn't even take your blade
So I kept it inside, out of fear I will die
And the body healed, with the sword inside
It grew scars around a long stick that didn't even look like a knife anymore
But that grew out of me, keeping all the people aside.

luni, 11 decembrie 2017

To the memory of you

One night I had a dream
I remembered how you used to lift me up in the air
and rotate me on the streets
I remembered how you would throw yourself in the freezing-cold snow
and have people staring at you
because you had no fear
and you taught me that
you said "ever since you've been with me, you've started to see yourself"
maybe you were my mirror
and maybe I didn't want to look at myself
in a room without you.

But I had to remember how to spin time again
Get out of the house, even with my eyes closed
if the people and the light were too much for me to see
and walk, just walk
for miles and miles
and slowly try to elongate, to feel how my body starts to feel like a body again
out in the world
and how it is the same size as other people's
when I burst into them on the sidewalks
and how, somehow, I'm not alone
and not strange
and not a different species
that crawls, and doesn't know how to walk naturally
tall and straight among other people.
It's true I don't  have love
and it's true I still don't talk much
or move too many miles on feet, but that's why there are subways
and buses
for people like me.
That's me
a person not so much like a person
that crawls out of the bed, sheds her worm squishy skin
pretends to be a human in the daylight
and sometimes remembers how it felt to be looked at
in the mirror of you
I keep you in my heart
you make me feel like a person
even though you're long gone, and the snow is still late this year
I will make an angel when it finally shows up
to the memory of you.

sâmbătă, 9 decembrie 2017

Pentru mine

E întuneric beznă când ies din baie. Toată lumea doarme și am uitat muzica la maxim, dar nimeni nu s-a trezit pentru că e jazz. Pisica mă așteaptă cuminte pe pătură. Mereu ridică ochii mari când mă vede. Cana cu ceai de lângă pat e răsturnată, probabil de pisică. Capul meu e rece de la șamponul cu mentă care încă fâsâie sub scalp. Îl aud pentru că sunt obosită. Miros a gumă de mestecat. Pe gelul de duș scrie marshmallow și îmi amintește de Timișoara. E moale. Capotul nu mai e așa de moale pentru că l-am băgat la 30 de grade. E albastru. E culoarea mea preferată. Am beculețele aprinse pe perete. Nu pentru Crăciun. Pentru mine.

vineri, 8 decembrie 2017

Mirror, mirror on the wall

It's like you existed in me long before I met you
You came and stopped my time for a few years that seemed like seconds
And now I am growing old again, waiting
Time is only an infinite amount of waiting
:when will I see you again, are you ever coming back
Will I just touch you again when I will come to your dead body
Only then will you let me see you
See your face again, lifeless
Only then will time stop again
And take me in the ground with you
For as long as you live I carry a knife inside my chest
I can't breathe, but as long as you exist
I can't pull it out and die;
I'm hanging from the ceiling, held by sharp threads
Like a wooden doll
I feel the stings everywhere
Your moves remembered
And repeating in me, taking me along
As you move on.

Have you ever tried to understand, have you heard
All my words lost in the echo
Of an empty building
That has your face painted on the walls
I can still see the bones in your arm so clear if I close my eyes
I can feel their hold on my arm, and the way our fingers intercept
The short grips by which we communicate
When we are in public, like a Morse code in the war
I can feel the bones
I can feel my grips
They are typing in thin air
I can feel
If I close my eyes
But nothing types back
My soldier is dead.

This is a letter going to nowhere, on an endless sea
I can only pray some storm can cross the distance in your eyes
For my gentle rhythm will never reach you,
It's long since you left, and I've grown tired
I can't run the streets anymore to catch you as I used to
I can't hear your voice at night and I can't grab your hoodie to my face
I can't hide under your chin on the bus, I can't feel your comforting smell in my mouth
I can't get to your house and climb up the stairs.
For I am scared
There is a corpse floating in that room
And your ghost is long gone
Clothing a shape I can but remember
While its body was on a train
Taking you far, far away.

Where are you?
Why did you take that train?
Why did you tell me to wait for you?
Why did you make me promise never to forget?
Until when
Will I shout for you, will I decompose
I'm crying my heart out every night
Trying to get you out of my system
But all the food, all the blood I puke can't contain you
It's too much of you in me
It is too much from it, everywhere
I can't look in the mirror
For I see you
It is you reflected again, and the words you used to put
To every face I used to make
And you have seen them all
You have seen all of me.
I was a bare soul in front of you
And you didn't like what you see
I make you sick
And for that I can't even look back at myself
For the words you put now to my faces
Are of pity and disgust.
I try to clean it off everyday, I try to be better
But I will never be better
Than I was with you.

miercuri, 6 decembrie 2017

Notite XXXV

La strada Popa Nan am sezut si-am plans. Acum sase luni pe o banca. Paulo Coelho ar fi mandru de mine.

Notite XXXIV

Am un gust amar. Sa nu incerci niciodata sa ma gusti.

duminică, 3 decembrie 2017

The happiness monster

I think we all do that, don't we? Stick around, waiting for someone to come and get us rid of our loneliness. Our miserable, infinite loneliness. We feed ourselves with short glimpses of happiness. We live in our heads. We get high with people. We grow sick with people. We try to heal, but there is no medicine. The doctor says it's gonna last only a few months. It's a seasonal illness. We heal with time. He gives me little pills filled with time and says: "Take a while, and you'll be better". I take that while. I am not better.
I am sick with memories. I live in the past. Sometimes I imagine myself things and live in the future. I get high on past and future. I get high on time. I am sick with time. The present gives me nothing. Only a place to think. The present sticks with you, still, like a disease, like a cough that you can't get rid of, no matter how much you spit. So you swallow and you try not to move. Maybe, like this, it will go away. But it never goes away. It never goes away.
I try to forget in my sleep. I try to imagine in my present. I am a master at deceiving myself. I am a happiness master. I take it in like air, I am greedy, I am insatiable. Afterwards, I puke it all out. My face and hands are dirty from the lies I take. I never believe. But I always take. Until I can't take it anymore, and I am full of it, up to my neck, and my body can only explode from so much happiness, from so many lies. From so much time. Made-up time stuck inside of me. But it never fixes itself there. It comes out all the time. All the same, I am stubborn. In the morning I make myself even more. And maybe, someday, maybe this day, it will stay. My happiness. It will stay.

sâmbătă, 2 decembrie 2017


Conversație între mine și o prietenă.
- Când o să mor, o să îmi dau organele spre donație.
- Bine că nu se poate dona și creierul. În creierul tău e liniște. Și numele lui.

vineri, 1 decembrie 2017

Notite XXXII

Cred că sfârșitul lumii trebuie să miroasă a dovleac copt.

Notite XXXI

Am goluri în stomac pe care nu pot să le mai acopăr cu mâncare.