You who taught me
that I can write such loving lines
only if it is you reading them

But now I ruin myself
because I know no matter
how many brutal lines I write

I will never get to see
your face light up
as you read them

Almost I found the courage
To tell you my regret
To tell you why
No one can ever touch me again

Would you hate me
For not telling you sooner
For being a coward
Despite having every opportunity possible

Would you hate the memories
As they all went skewed
Wondering if your lust
Was damaging instead of pleasing

Would you be mad at him
A boy who hurt me
That I have no contact with

I was almost brave
I almost formed the words
But when I tried to process it
I went back to that phone call
That cold, cold November
The request I made

I wished to make my abuser happy
Even at my own cost
How silly was I
How silly and young
Holding my life in my hands

Poetry is the weeping eye
it is the weeping shoulder
the weeping eye of the shoulder
it is the weeping hand
the weeping eye of the hand
it is the weeping soul
the weeping eye of the heel.
Oh, you friends,
poetry is not a tear
it is the weeping itself
the weeping of an uninvented eye
the tear of the eye
of the one who must be beautiful
of the one who must be happy.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru