The signs said,
“Stop.”
A defunct traffic light
beating red —
Danger,
Pinocchio abandon:
that amateur drunk
with the crimson nose,
lost keys in hand.

My problem now:

White collar.
Uniform standard.
I feel the blues,
sweat scrubbed invisible —
because it’s not brand standard
to perspire.
“We love everyone.”

Silent grime.
Immaculate shoes.
Serving forty hours,
paying back dues.

There is no prize
in this cereal box.
And we all know:
we don’t even try
to fake the show.

No.

I am a decrepit puppet,
unfinished in craft,
neglected in intent —
a marionette,
suspended by strings
of a predator,
nested above me,
thriving on futility.

They animate me
when they are hungry.
The spider’s web jerks,
a feast of a fly
caught systematically.

And they call this movement
“Living.”

I envy the fly

The gall ink slid slow across the grain
not just black, but silent breathing.
It curled where silence might remain,
where truth lay soft and seething.

It danced in fibers, not for show,
but for the ache of meaning
each line a pulse, a moment letting go,
each word a quiet keening.

The letter held no voice or name,
just petals and a thread.
But still the ink remembered flickering flame
long after it was said.

And when the lamp gave one last sigh,
its breath a final stain
the ink still moved, too bold to die,
alive upon the grain.

I sat on the edge of the bed.
You smiled.
I am your daughter,
But words mean to you
Something else.

I took your hand,
Telling you I haven’t slept for a year.
I write reflections,
Tame the voices behind my left ear,
Assemble thoughts about the darkness.

I pour a warm, salty liquid
That burns the skin – it doesn’t moisturize.
It helps me,
This pseudo-therapy.
I hide behind my nickname,
So that no one holds me accountable
For what I’m supposed to be.

You also sat up at night,
You read books.
You carried hidden sadness,
I stick a smile on my lips.

I hug people who carry Egregores.
You and I,
we are not afraid of the night.
Your hand is cold.
You smile,
You put together syllables into strange words.

You know that I matter to you.
I pretend to understand
What you wanted to say.

In a moment, it will get hard.
You’ll start screaming like a little boy,
Or again you’ll wait
Until this state of life passes you.

Life?
It’s a kind of space
Where people, because of fear
Bite and scratch
Like frightened, rabid dogs –
And then soothe it
With controlled tenderness.

I sit with you on the edge of the couch
And I think:
We write with the left hand.
We are beings of the night.
Our path was shared –
In fear, to protect a small piece of “I”.

I fear I’ll lose language.
I desperately defend myself against silence.
I dream of non-human languages.
I write words as if I wanted
To cast spells on reality –
Still, it’s not enough.
The anesthesia stopped working.

One day, this will be the end,
Yet as long as I live,
I’ll be the naive one.
That’s what I want.

I choose sweet, sugar-coated hope,
With pink sprinkles,
Telling myself that he, she
Didn’t mean to trample –
Only life pushed them
Into that dark corridor.

My hope
Is not a soft blanket,
This is a heavy, tight helmet.