Anja Jul 16
You

I am
Mostly dependent
On independent people
Especially when they’re women—
Especially when they’re you.

You, with your
High-pitched laugh and your
Dark hair up and your
Pride loud but your
Voice louder and
Heart
Closed.

Yes,
I am dependent
And most days I repent it
To have my body and
Soul and
Heart and
Head in
You.

And you
have your head and—
Your head.
And that’s, you say,
What you like in me.
Yes,
That’s the takeaway:
My academic
Skills
Not the late nights spent
Holding you or the
Times I went
To comfort you
Or the energy used
To convince you
it’s true:
You are
Enough.

Enough, I said
On the floor
I told myself
I couldn’t do this
Anymore,
I—

Am a person
Not a therapist
Per se
A laborer
Always
A construction worker
for you
And me
And us but
Even I can’t fix a
One-way street,
Not me.

Although sometimes I’d like to—
Especially when you look at me the way you do and
Lift my skirt and break the rules
And scream louder than
Anyone else,
You.

Narcissist,
You ghost-like figure
Presence-less, you sometimes-mess
And yet I insist to
Chase you
but you’re the one who will haunt me
through and through,
You and your fucked-up ways
To show
Love
After all,
There is not space for me
in ‘I.’

But then I remember
The way you defy
Expectations—including mine
and every time
You deny
that you are afraid
For your life
But let me tell you
So am I
Afraid for my heart when we’re apart
But lately also
When we are together.

See, I knew this wasn’t forever
But I thought the end was yet to come,
Not yesterday.
Or I guess maybe it was
Right at the start—
The first time you kissed me
And the first time I missed you
When you didn’t miss me,
You.

And now you have me here
In this space
This in-between,
And I,
A basket case—
Wishing that
I wasn’t here
That
I wasn’t queer
That maybe if I found a man
I could spare myself this
Late-night pain and
Post-drink drain
So
I will find a husband and
A house to stay in with
a white-picket fence and
Pretend
that I am numb so that
I won’t feel happiness
but I won’t feel loss
And
I won’t feel like this
Ever again.

So here I am and
Although it’s different this time around
I am still bound
by my roots
And my wounds and my soul.
This may make me dependent but at least
When I said I loved you I meant it—
Yes, I am in love with you,
But
From the start, everyone knew
And they told me to
run
Away
And run I did
Right toward you
You, my gone-too-soon,
Almost-truce
Hope-in-doom,
Nightmare,
You,
And I am
A fool.

this poem sounds the best when it's performed, but I hope you also enjoy the written version.
Anja Jul 10

the whole earth
is coming to an end, it seems.

the clouds are lowering their bodies

to distantly watch our deeds

and then turn around to crash

into each other

at the sight of what humanity

has become.

this is an older one but it seems very relevant.
Anja Jul 8

To be the ‘other’
Is fun.
It’s the new black, haven’t you heard?
Everyone is doing it now.
Such a sweet memory—
walking down the street
And being stabbed;
There’s a sweet melancholy
In being called ‘abomination’ and ‘bad.’

It’s 2 a.m.
She was a poet and
Her poetry spoke;
It was beautiful,
But it wasn’t quite her.

You see, you can’t sell something if
you’re queer or
A woman,
And if you’re both, well, then you’re
Out of luck.

Yes, her poetry spoke but
“she”
was always herself
And never her lover;
They always told me
There’s a whole world out there to discover—
But only if you’re straight.
Otherwise, you’ll have to do it
Under cover.
Listen, it’s not me
But the neighbors don’t want to be bothered.

So her poetry spoke but
Not with her voice.
Because, after all,
being gay was a choice
And others don’t want to be troubled.
But what if they discovered
What it means to be the ‘other’?

I guess we’ll never know.

— The End —