Waiting Game

“In the morning, I will not switch open the blinds. / Want to know what it’s like to stay turned off so you can’t be reached.”

“Something burst in me, slow and terrible like the sea.”

I have come back to my world of no one,

maybe my heart was hungrier than this.

“all my grief says the same thing:this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. and the world laughs. holds my hope by the throat. says:but this is how it is”

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

I am on fire. I see two thin streaks burn down my chin. I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.

I create entire romances in my dreams.

There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.

“Women and monsters have a lot in common [..]. They are both outcasts; alienated, derided and feared by society. They are biological freaks with bodies that transgress and fluctuate, and they are both threats to male power.”

She was obeying an impulse, of course, as she always had done, from the beginning, throughout her life, following a whisper, a suggestion, that sprang into being from nowhere and mocked her afterwards.

For that’s what poetry is – a way to live through time. And sometimes, just for a while, to bring it back.

I was in bad shape, definitively broken. A broken clock that, because its metal heart continued to beat, was now breaking the time of everything else.

To understand, I destroyed myself. To understand is to forget about loving.

I do not want anymore to be useful,