I’ve never felt so tranquil
while so numb.

It’s like leaving while
staying still, a calm
pulse in nothing,
music without a sound,
*** without a body.

It’s an erasure of strides
in snow and slush,
a dissolving act,
the cackle of a
wholesome child.

Pure and imperfect.

Today,
I am drifting downstream,
riding the cherry blossoms.

And I’m not stopping this time,
I’m not checking out,
waking up or falling asleep.

The stars will kiss me and I
will drink their light.

I am no longer afraid.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Please, do not ask me
if I am okay.
I do not want to
add that lie to all
the reasons I had
to die.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

I keep hearing the question, 
“would you speak to a friend like that?” 
No, I would not. 

But

friend? What friend? Were we supposed 
to be friends? I would never befriend 
someone like this. Who suffocates me. 

Who’s so toxic I’ve caught ***** in my 
throat, eroding my will to breathe. Who 
wields a heavy fist and punishes with 
violence. Who lights silences with flames. 

No, you are not my friend.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

She wraps the presents with cheap paper
on the desk against the wall, lit by dim
Christmas lights. All the unwrapped toys
are in the pink plastic basket at her feet,
and she stacks the finished ones at the
foot of the bed.

I’m propped up on the pillows, touching
myself and stroking my chest as I watch
her work, charmed by how her bones
and muscles move beneath her skin. She
turns around with a finished gift and
sets it down. Her eyes meet mine and she
simpers, biting  her lower lip, then turns
and picks up another toy.

I leave the bed, careful not to knock
anything off, and walk up behind her.
She keeps working on the present as I
pet her shoulders and brush my fingers
along her back. I press my body against
hers, wrapping my arms around her
waist and planting kisses on her neck.

She stops working and places her hands
on mine, tilting her head back and
letting her hair drape my shoulder. I
move my hand down her stomach and
across her hair, and I rub her. She huffs
and brings my other hand to her *******,
beckoning me to caress her. I circle
tighter, faster, harder, and she moans
and reaches her hand back to caress me.

I nibble at her ear, and she lets out a
heavy moan, and I whisper in her ear

“You are a wonderful mother.”

Her breathing slows, and she nudges
my  hand from her. “Don’t say that” she
whispers. We stand there, frozen, before
she continues working on the present.
I stay there behind her, realising my
best intentions were a mistake.

“I’ll just go then.” I put my clothes back
on and remove the trash bag from the
bin to take with me to make sure her
husband doesn’t find my condoms.
“Merry Christmas.” I close the bedroom
door and leave her home, careful not
to wake her kids.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Once again, I follow The Old Road.

It’s a way paved and trodden long
ago by steps as disillusioned as
mine, and as blinded by the milky
fog filling lungs like frigid smoke.

When we’re lost, we believe it’s the
swollen feet and crooked spine and
chattering teeth and the burning mind
that are our ailments.

But time is our disease, ill spent and
driven off and engulfed while expecting
something different, something more,
for promises not made.

All the while death sings its ageless
lullaby louder and louder until the
only promise ever kept thrusts 
the dusty sting. 

But I won’t learn. I refuse to
pay attention. 

Once again, I follow The Old Road.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

The sun settles into morning, 
and I'm waking up from another
restless night. Another night
spent with you hanging from
every dream and every breath.

But I am free. I have been
liberated. Last night I ripped
my heart out of my breast
and devoured it in front of you.

And you let me.

You let me harm myself
without letting it hurt you. 

Thank you.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet