Oh my lover,
I’m sorry—
I know you
mean so well,
yet I’m not
a vessel to
your empty
self—

Even when
I still loved you
like poison
from a bottle—
We fall apart
like glass.

Oh my lover—
It’s over.
I’m sorry,
I have to let go.
It was lovely
to know you
from the
same room—
It’s over.

As a poet,
I have some
sort of “sickness”.
A “disease” that
makes me cough
cold, raw, inky words.
It forms sentences
you never heard
out of me before.

On endless hours
of sitting in a
room alone,
my throat
hurts so badly.
Someone sliced it
open with a knife—
I lost my broken voice
in the process—
But not my soul

I'm my mother's reflection,
we have similar face,
similar nose,
almost identical profile,
and my eyes are like hers
but in a paler shade.

I'm my mother's reflection,
but just on the surface.
How can I argue when she denies
the similarities between us?
Her soul is full of life,
love comes easy for her
and the faith she never lost.

I'm my mother's reflection,
if she had died in her youth.
My soul is vacant,
empty.
When it comes to love
I hesitate, a weakness
instead of strength.
And my faith was lost
long before I knew the
meaning of the word,
only rage I have known.