August 11, 2018

How do you spend forced alone time?

In a prison, an open prison. Between people, out of reach. They see me and don’t see me. I’m the invisible attractive woman. Why invisible, to everybody? No, the opposite sex see me, they look at me. They say I’m interesting, magnetic. For the women my power isn’t power, it’s weakness. The opposing end.

I’m always alone. I’m always punished for being still here. At a wedding last week— I wasn’t really there, not a single picture of me was taken… or were they deleted… I feel invisible, I might disappear any moment and the people around will sigh in relief, as if they only felt a disturbing ghostly presence…

I’m so lonely, so lonely… It’s a loneliness beyond words, those days are cursed. I only talked to two people, it takes a lot of empathy not to look away, I do feel sorry for them. I see a spark, I see someone’s pitiful glance. Well again it wasn’t a call for me, not yet, but when…

I’m too proud to beg. I’m too proud to pretend, to fake normalcy, to resist being who I am. Sometimes overflowing with empathy and sympathy, filled with hope, it lasts until I see they’re ready to live without me. I set you free, my loved ones. My job here was done. I’m too detached, too absent to be seen here, here… I don’t think I’m here.

I think I maybe died during one of those cursed years, during childbirth, or maybe that bus did hit me… maybe my lover killed me… I had to beg on my knees, I had to bring him to rage, I had to lead him to the end… One step further, only one and… I’m out of this… Hell.

With every day my loneliness is getting worse. I’m either very weird, anxious, mistakenly seen as arrogant… I ask myself what it is every day. Some days I allow the disappointment to rule, I’m out of the woods for a long time now but too many days around people who want nothing to do with me, hypocrisy, broken promises, loveless, raging, ugly loneliness. My alone time? I consider a prison to be a better place, the solitary confinement, yes. I can’t find my people. I live to feel the despair of every minute, locked inside, outside, anyplace, confined not within walls or any known force. Do you see me? No, don’t tell me, I’m not ready to hear this!

August 26, 2019

Is it shallow to want to read the best writers? For the other writers it might bring sorrow. Envy, why can’t I, it depresses me deeply. I won’t read, I’ll stop writing. For as long as I can punish myself for being… so shallow. The rest can just appreciate and dream. But not a writer, it hurts to be less.

I want perfection and I can’t get there. I blame myself for that, I then go to the other extreme and write at the surface, under the sun, that’s a shameful exposure, even the birds didn’t eat it. I’m not going to be angry with some stupid birds who know nothing. Go deeper and the fish will reject it. What if, what if. It tastes bad.

Now I see the question. We’re all looking to find the beauty and then we get scared of it, it becomes too much? It’s not for us. Let someone else have it. It can’t be that good. There must be something wrong there. How shallow to want a beautiful partner. They can’t be a person of value? It’s just too shallow to love anyone, when even the average looking becomes the most beautiful, in my eyes, if I love him. Then what? Is he better for me then? Does he care more or is he able to appreciate my beauty, at all, if I’m just too fucked up?

Some look for that, I’m one of them. A nice, good person won’t understand me. No matter how I look. For some I’m a goddess, you know. But I can give them… just a body, lifeless, dry, sobbing. Chaste. Yes, me.

I see the “normal looking” people. I imagine him cumming. I imagine him angry at me. It either excites me or not. I don’t want to be there when he does make those faces on top of me. Or I do. I’ve tried being with someone who kissed like a slug. Uh oh. I loved every other corner of his soul…

Then the opportunity comes. I play with it in my mind’s fingers. I play with my hair again, this will make me blind one day. But it looks so good when it’s long. And it relaxes me…

A handsome man, a beautiful woman. For a while, and they should use it. It would be a waste not to. Do the usual people on the tram have all the possibilities we have? Do they want them? Maybe some do.

I have an overweight friend. She wants them but doesn’t get any… Yes, some men won’t mind. But she wants the most beautiful women. Craving is painful. Disappointment and then another, and then another. Never stops, never gets better. Why? I would do everything, your most perverted fantasies are mine, too. But people never look at me that way.

I can hear you. I want to help but then my body goes numb. I can’t give you what you want so much, after all. I find crooked teeth sexy. I have a fetish. I don’t feel guilty. I can’t give everyone who wants part of me the same experience I give to D. My best performance and I’m still not enough. What can we say for the people I kind of want then?

I should give up. I’m too old now, to want more, to be desirable, my life’s too complicated, my salary isn’t enough for all the drugs he would buy, my cellulite visible. All the big and small reasons. I can think of hundreds but the people who like me won’t see them. D will and he’ll go back to his 21 years old…

Writing about it is all I have left. And the people who believed in me, gone. When I stopped being as beautiful as I once was. Wrinkled writing, it got wrong somewhere. The promiscuity, the message wasn’t exactly uplifting. I get it. But I won’t change it. I hear my muse calling me and I follow. There are more important things than being liked by everyone.

September 3, 2018

I know it in the midst of every time we meet. I know it at the end of every sentence. This is the last time I see you. The fucking, crashing, burning end. I’ll never miss you, never cry for you. Whatever happens, the consequences are worth not grieving for a second for a love or friendship of unworthy kind.

There was too much left unsaid, I couldn’t tell you what I did before—ten erased years. It makes me sick, I’m so weak. I couldn’t make sense of me, my life was on a downward spiral. I didn’t do anything really. I had found my silent, still place in the world for three years, and then another similar but different three years passed and then… Not living, not doing, not taking anything from it was my subconscious goal, I wanted to go unseen and managed, it worked like a charm. I still can’t believe I’ll have to live. I was walking home today, thinking for the millionth time how my future looks—I have to walk towards something but not a single muscle in my legs has the will to… Well, only a predator can make me run, maybe. I’ve tried that but I chose the wrong direction, if choice is what I had in such an agreement. I gave him my body to get back some emotion, fear, a life! How do I make my body believe in life, when my brain doesn’t want to. I’ve been on a survival mode for decades. I’m so tired all the time. Motivation? No, I don’t want anything, I’ll give up writing but not my son yet. I just hope I’ll have enough time to pick a good family for him, and I won’t just go on living. I want to burn bridges everywhere I look. Not good enough, not good enough, and I’m just the same, not good enough. To be considered somebody here and out there where dignity still exists—you have to be out-of-this-world good and I’m not because I lack—basically everything. The desire to burn bridges is eating me alive, no other thought can be planted, I need to be far from you here and you there, just for my sanity, it’s what my madness whispers. Sleepless nights my ass, it used to be healthy to sleep but not anymore. I won’t have my three minutes, all alone. I won’t have music to push me too far, too loud. I won’t have a whole world to continue with probably some kind of “real” living when I’m not here, awake.

Sometimes I like, love and adore. But as everything has a beginning and an end, I can feel our time is dripping away. I saw in his eyes, heard his words, that I will be old one day and maybe 5 kg heavier, or more, it matters to some more than my talents and the rest we get in each other’s presence. Not talking is good enough, talking was talking before but the silence between us made us deaf to what we had to set on loop, repeat, agree with, roll eyes at now and then and again. I do pretend to listen. You don’t need me to talk because you fear my anger, undiagnosed lethal silences are what we’re holding on to. Unacceptable, I make my rounds around and check the stoves, the lights, do I smell smoke, have I the right to one peaceful night?

My big bed and my baby in it—I have to sleep on the edge, no decision coming in yet. I need a shelter, not another bridge to burn. I will leave this for another day, it’s not that I’m not brave enough today. I can wait, it works.

Poem 34

You’re the bad, bad boy

Be, play that role

It suits some, lonely souls

I’ll play my role 

Of unartful rejection

Of the things I wanted

Once, last month, last year 

Before, while it’s been drying out

Slowly, dying, destroying

Your image, your lure

The promise that things change

The liking, approval

And lastly, my words

Thrown in your void


It wasn’t that long ago, I come to your place
Of the past, my memories try to espy your gaze
We fitted together, our parents of mad siblings
Feel that bliss of novelty, they’ll see through our
Made-up ending: we’re the final dinner, Brother
The sun’s fixed hidden behind your fading face

I walk in your rooms, I lay on your bed, unarmed
Just wanting to see if it will hurt, a half-moon
Lurking from your eyes, in that look on a picture
Somewhere for all, I want that warmth for myself
I need the version behind the veneer of ecstasy
A bogus gentleman, certainly not one of a kind

I was alone all along, I must have been lonely
When you were so cut-out, so gone, a ghost
This is the best thing about someone who dies
My blood thrives in the mornings of your rebirth
The nights, I’m too old to remember the lack of
A dream, just a dream, and I ache to wake up

Poem 33

Like a dying hive, I cracked from inside out
In this neighborhood, with its horizon soiled
Fuming noise, sheared by streets, buried in that whore
Globe, round and sound, encircled in its atmosphere
Out of my reach, it’s dark over here
Some linen feeling lurks, escapes mouth in liquid murk
As the theme inside becomes a ring, only when I’m sober

I’m here for you

Our house is brimming with motion
With endless stairs that run all ways and see
We do not sleep, the murmur is slick
It goes deeply to the core, satiated, inside our moist bones
When little feet thump behind walls
Chamber echoes summon rumours
We fight the night, don’t need the mock of light
Who keeps intact the walloping swing of swings
Of walking anger, covering the sense of danger

Submission #2

I will go to the lowest low
For you, it’s how you made me
Your words moulded and hardened
A true, self-harming, promiscuous
Thing, out of the respectable
Once trusted between the superiors
I’ve lost their count since then
Why you, it started slowly, you crawled under
My feet, anticipating to destroy the one in power
It was allowed back then, just to enjoy me
In pools of water and the hottest, driest of all cathedrals
Here, inside my body, you laid something
Which made a difference in the heavens
For every single word you gave me
You were repaid its weight in licks of my whip

Poem 32: A cry

A cry out of humiliation escaped
This filled with scattered halves land
It turns out, I do have a cunning mind
Deliciously wrapped in a blurry, suicidal thought
No, it’s one part simple bravery, and two parts
Fear of a traitor, before the firing squad
And then you take me back for a last short trip
Was his pain louder than mine
I ask when I’m shaking, suffering
I couldn’t move my fingers for a while
With his face being dream-kissed
I felt his fingers in my mouth
And then another kiss
I couldn’t move to stop it, a rare
Day, tainted with a residual of his dark spell
I crossed such loveless, empty phase
But only now I understand
My love is not cold steel- a work in progress
Transcending in a quiet knock of time

Congrats with the wedding

You want me to tell my son the truth

About his father, how he left me pregnant

With his child, to go and marry another woman

How he never asked a single question about his boy

Why would he, he had three more, now four

I fucked up by choosing him and he made

My life hell, is there a revenge sweeter

Than the sweet, dear boy, untroubled

Untouched by this evil, his eyes full of joy!

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