when I die
do not burn me
or bury me inside the ground
instead cover me in ink
and surround me with papers

- a poet never dies

it has always saddened me
how they compared themselves,
twisting and turning every
inch of their bodies
until emptiness became necessity,
and necessity became torture

because the desire to fit into a body
that society had shaped for them
had grown in their hearts
like a tsunami deep down
in the darkest waters

how many tears have I shed
trying to understand how
intense their pain must be
that they denied what we call life
because they felt they already had
too much of it inside them

with red cheeks
you hold the guns
like brushes in your hand
and in two silent seconds
you paint your brain on the wall

(and start to run)

I think about myself in gray,
like the concrete over which
the cars drive in an
endless loop
gray like the cloudy sky
that leaves no room
for being

i should rather think of myself
in blue,
like the ink that stains my hands,
or like the depth of the ocean,
where the mermaids hide

but I cannot see the colours in me

we search ourselves
in others, desperate,
to find someone who shows us
how to live a life