So, what if i seek
Freedom? What if i want to
Leave what's "important"?

I **** my grandma
with love i don't even own.
And she kills me back.

My father is tied
Around my yellowish neck
To make it more white

"We are okay,"
I know you all aren't,
"We hope you are too,"*
It is no use.

I am sleepy but i
Don't want to sleep
And i
Wonder

If my body is still mine.
I could listen to this song
Till the end of my life, no
Even after i die

Till the end of the world.
I wonder what my
Ears think about me
And the songs

I force them to hear.
I cannot sleep
Any more, i cannot
Have brain any longer

No, i cannot.
This song is a song
Sweet and painful
So very much like love

Only truer.
I have to sleep
In my own chest
But it broke too sharp

I might be hurt
And i wonder if
My body
Is still mine.

I am my own cry
and jealousy in a box
sent to grandmother.

Don't tell me who I
Am, don't tell me how I am;
Don't tell me at all.

Sun that smells like rain
rising from my chest, the warmth
that leaves water prints.

How could you think she
did not try her very best?
How could you think that?

I am the way my
Mother breaks; I am the way
She talks to Father.

It is going to
feel like a dream that leaves you
drenched in nasty sweat.

She is natural
disaster; i have to be
deaf to hear her voice.

I will spend my life
wondering if fourth level
is high enough. Quick.

You don't understand
and i won't ever explain.
I do not either.

I sit the way a
stomachache would; i sit the
way my mother taught.

The way my father
speaks is the way my head hurts;
purely true headache.

she does not do
kindness anymore
the back of her head
is made of atmosphere

her eyes cannot blink
she keeps staring
at her thumbs

her brain wants to get out
throat and mouth
and tongue is real
you can't see her

in black suits
she wears green for a reason
she does not do

kindness anymore
her legs
are gone
she lost it yesterday

in a pond
near her bed
she can't swim too far

her lungs
are made of flanel
and a stitch is enough

enough for them
to dive

she does not
do kindness anymore

her neck is a cage
and tongue
is real

Don't call her darkness.
Don't call her what she wasn't.
Don't call her tragic.

This is a strange heat of cloudy day in october where bathroom stalls are the only place they spread the love.

She wants rain. She covers her school bag with plastic so her books will not be soaked. She believes, soon, it will rain.

She becomes a boy when something inside her bleeds. It is a battle wound. It is what makes her beautiful. It is what makes her want to insert her fingers very slowly into your eyes.

She dies monthly; that is why we celebrate easter every month. The eggs also die, only not in a way you can understand. They cry in trash bin, right before a stray dog comes and carries them with its lovely teeth.

"I only want to kiss you like *******. Let's hold hand and be a cramp. We can hug like contraction or the way a womb would."

It will not rain. She begins to open her umbrellas. She has twenty seven in twelve different patterns.

"I think the dog loves me too."

She gives up. She says she will stay. This is the very bottom of her current lowest. Her eyelids are heavy as iron. They only become heavier and heavier.

"I think i can sing amazing grace."

But she never opens her mouth ever again. She cannot even brush her teeth. And when her jeans are stained with blood, she cries like a baby whose lips are sewn together with rose's thorns.

Her eyelids are now corroded. Glad she has counted all the sheeps. She is going to sleep. A long nap. A sweet, sweet dream. *A sweet, sweet dream.

You are still a
God and i
Can't reach
You.

Because all i want
is to be a butterfly
and lose my four wings.

Your blinks were the morning way i say hello
to the trees, nailed and pretentiously painted yellow,
slightly being a song about going home
slightly being mild wrinkles in your hand
holding a thing called a lung
warm and black, full of cancer
in july
of school holidays and false anxiety

muting an eye by an eye,
you only have two, oh, me too.
And another song in september
where i put my ears in a bank
near the tiny window smells like plastic
in my drink,
melting like meisjes in the fingers
of whatever meaning she had or hadn't grown up
in a ***
belonged to mary jane

a best friend of many
in a windy country full of
strangers'
hearts and appropriations
dancing like smokes
around the neck of a
heaty dragon,
dreamy sore throat and psychologist's smile.

O, she makes me puke!
Her stomach round as a globe ---
it is mine also.

Bed sheet smells a lot
of detergent and menthol
It reeks of sadness

You are inside your
own stomach and i cannot
tell where---where it is

iii. Name

I borrow your name
for the days i cannot bear
(and some ****** poems)

ii. Flower

Your hair is petals
and i am a butterfly
sipping your nectar

I don't want to hurt --
did it too much already;
to you and myself.

i. Angel

I have stomachache
like the roof of your mouth in
nights where stars are bright

"Forefingers are small,
don't you worry about it,"
she says to an ant.

My legs will soon rot
before i've time to bury
them in the backyard

Talking about trash and vomitting i am staring at the ceiling with my dry mouth open
I slept at three and woke up at eleven
It was a sunny morning my roommate left at seven she left the curtain open and why did not she let the window break sometimes i think of jumping but standing on height makes me want to fall to bed and hide under the blanket
I don't want to bathe and eat breakfast but i kept snacking and i wish i were that sweet tooth i haven't washed the dishes and ****** and i am thinking of
Being in a plane
Heat struck and breaking the window the wind the clouds the pressure
I don't know if i am still afraid of heights
I have never been that high enough anyway like i am on the second floor it's never high enough i think of the high buildings in the capital city but i just love her too much
I will not
I will not
I will not let them read me in newspapers
I still think about methods to die but it does not make sense anymore like i want to have bullets on my head like jesus' crown but i don't want the cold thing in my mouth i don't want my head to be a blood fountain out of the blue
I am too drained even to think of running and jumping off a cliff like it's actually dumb and not pretty and i hear that we have so much to live
We have so much to live
I didn't have my breakfast
I am too okay to think this laziness as depression i cannot blame my brain it is too okay it is too okay i am too okay i shouldn't complain
Too much
Too much i complain too much

You grow flowers out of your corpse but all i want to be is to decay into plastic and harm the earth and it's true that such a sad world we live in
I am getting you back here
Sonja i am getting you back here

You are still me
You are still me
You are still me

Welcome home

The night breeze is a
fever taking over your
soul drenched in sweat

She left the window
open went to shower at
three before midday

I hope she would catch
cold but i will say kind words
and feed her in bed

She left the window
open at three a.m. i
was trying to sleep

She is brushing her
teeth my knees hurt i think i'll
lose my legs as well

I will not, i will not, i will not
Have these hands ever again
Feel the things against my skin
Touch you, touch myself
And the trees when you walk me home
Hungry cats we see and teachers' palms

I will not, i will not
Know a thing about hot and cold
When the cramps come, i have lost comfort
Sweaty palms and tide heart rate
Stomachache, ache and ache all the way
My chest dropped-
I dropped my chest like my phone

I will not
Tremble ever again

charmless
and the fingers you used to glorify
god
the girl too pure she has nothing to do with sin-
you keep your ****** tight
****** of a moth
it rained light
senseless
and the poets who wear bright yellow coats
exploited
her head hurts when she reads the papers
'don't make me black and white'
****** of a toad
tires and holey road
bricks and cinnamon
****** mocha (a coffee shop)
frightless
a battlefield so full of itself
grand humiliation of oneself
hundreds of bravas, bunch of roses-
venomous thorns
powerless

You are a stomach
full of carbonara, stale
milk in the morning

i have never hated silence before
i need to talk
i need to hear humans talking
to me
i need to hear the soft, not so high voice
simple words, light and easily understood
talk to me, let me hear your voice
so i know i am not alone
and that i can
go through this-
i have never hated silence before
actually i loved it
i did

i keep desperately wanting to be the person i am not. it's true.

i only want to be enough.

you
are gone. i can't run
too far.
your legs are too
long. i can't
follow you
anymore.

i know you know,
i don't understand
anything
at all.

who you are,
who you were,
i have no
idea.

and who i am,
who i was,
i don't even
know.

who wrote those,
who sent those,
who read those,
it was only a
dream, dull and
gray.

our islands.

i kept thinking
we
shared a
bond.

I become afraid
of the sun -- I just wanted
love -- she burned me twice.

xii.

big hips; small hips and long, skinny legs
people and the worlds inside them
pointing at the screen
which movie should we watch?

the last time i watched movie alone
was divergent
it was an insane ride
and my parents picked me up
knowing i had lost a thing
but they didn't ask
and i didn't tell
i was ***** by poetry

-- i am holy
just like lilith, eve, and mary --

watch out i am trying to heal
so what if i am romanticizing
illness! i am not ill
enough
to lose

my eyes see clear
anabelle, tickets sold out
the people; in hijab, in short skirt
in high heels and slippers
their faces
i see them clear

it looks the same like that friday
just feels different
it has been months
a relatively insane ride
so cathartic

my land may well be a big cathedral
or some sweet mosque
with all the gods
praying to each other
with cold soup in their tongue
and stale milk they offer

to the homeless like us, you know
home isn't really the walls and roof
that keep you from rain and sundust
home is the rain and dust and your sunburned hands and the acnes on your face and
the wounds on your knees
you got when you were learning
to bike

in my dream you were
running like a rat
wearing your fingertoes like
hydrangeas and heartache
in your head
where all the nice things passed out
we built barbed fences around our heart
to keep it still
like a ghastly statue
i had no clue
in my dream you were
planting apple seeds
in a corn field
i gave you a knife
became a mermaid
the last child
and a sea
in my dream you were
shining like a sun
brainlike exploding
having planets around
like flower crown
in my dream
you were
warm mug i'd left at home
three a.m. and homework not done
a highschool girl
long forgotten
in a potrait on your identity card

Moss-covered voice I've
forgotten long time ago.
I am not my ears.

I'll say these meaningless words
over and over and over again:
I love you
I love you
I love you

Even when I think of you as God;
I love you

Young blood, heated and dried
Dead head
You had crawled
Sickeningly sweet

I long for you
Funny duchess!
My Mary ---

Even though my tongue knows only clichés
and sometimes my tongue is too short
to speak human and the other times
my tongue is too long I think it
becomes python ---

I wish you were not dead;
Be here with me
You, omnipresent
I wish I could believe --

You wrote the bible with your own pretty hand --
Your ****** head (my sunrise)
Throbbing heart (still exists)
You have soul like universe
Objectified, scientified

How did you put it in?
And a nebula
Sickeningly sweet
I hope for no regret
Yet I am afraid

Of pureness -- your lethal-honest yellowness --
Spreads like **** pictures
Peanut butter on the bread in an easy morning

My, blonde thing!
Dark eyes, the nights
Spent crying
Why did you die, why did you die---

O why did you die?

Why did you die?

The freshness of youth
hits my face like sweet sea tides.
Wake up, girl! Just be younger today.
Your dying soul -- it is not rotten
yet.

We do not have summer nor winter,
girl, you decide your own season.

Eat well, sleep enough, brush your teeth, wash your hair, go to shower!
And clean laundry, honeybee, as important as cheery selfie.

Small thing by small thing,
I know you can do it.
Never again let your books cry at night, pretty.
Read them, all of them.

Go to school
to make friends.
Do your silly homeworks.
Don't listen to your teachers,
just read. Read your books,
read them, all of them.
Don't change major. You know where you
are
going to.

Small thing by
small thing. Easy! You are bigger than those
small things.

Your time being old is over,
daisy, now you may
be
young
forever.

My eye of storm; she
had taken my storm away even
before I was born.

Hot bath, food poisoning and sour breath;
I made it all
up inside my head.

Mama, I do not want to eat
and I don't want you to know it.

I am glad you do so well without me
but too bad, fears aren't what stay like rocks.
They breathe like fire and grow like children.
I lost them once and they never come back,
o my poor lost children I still love them!

Mama, I just took a proper shower.
I know I should not be so proud, but
the water was black and so cold and the soap and shampoo were mocking my filthy skin.
I was strong. I am strong.
I am glad you do so well without me.

I was Mother Mary once, you did not know it.
You have lots of grandchildren but I lost all of them so I cannot show you how they have grown like haunted trees and abandoned churches.
You taught me motherly love, Mama,
not how to prove it.

I became a garden but the minerals kept falling from
the pores and eyes. I could not be good soil.
The hibiscus and jasmine and frangipani I wanted to grow
are now as dead and confused as my chest.

My head is one native tomb.
How could I not find a name?

I am doing very well, Mama.

Just that I kept thinking I am at home.

I cannot eat without a friend
and I haven't showered in days.
That is why I write, I guess.

I do not brush my teeth anymore but
when we were staying over
I brushed them two times a day.
That is how I write;
so human.

My tongue tastes stale and my scalp
feels like a bathroom rug.
I've never listened to music this much before.
I did not like sounds. Still don't.
I hope my ears would bleed so I could write about it.

Oh I only can write;
so human.

I do not read. Do not speak nor hear.
That is why I write.

There were days when I could not write.
There will be more.
More. More. I hope it's not today.

I only can write!

Where is my thunder?
It isn't under the bed
nor under my scalp.

Is it the music
or your voice that hurts the sky?
[I beg you, don't cry.]

It is her left eye,
opens wider in cloudy
nights. [It will not rain.]

It is never you,
you aren't an idea
nor 2 a.m. thought.