i still dream of you,
good old oak,
from day one.
the seasons change,
and I still picture you
standing there,
under the golden sun;

and one day,
I‘ll rush headlong
into your opened arms.
But for now, you‘re
just another
perfectly written,
but unsung song;

I promise you,
one day I‘ll come
to see you there,
ten miles away,
under the golden sun.
I’m waiting, patiently,
for my grief to be gone

my subtle heart is pounding
in a bell jar full of memoirs
as it falls from the heavy sky
- the last summer of stone

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)

This inhuman behavior of not knowing
where to exist
put your feet outside
never come in again
stay outside, where the danger waits
come inside, feel the warmth of your family
sit and stay, go away
nowhere to go, restless feet
where am I able to exist?

I can feel it
running down my throat
reddish slivers,
last scratches of hope
through my veins the
longing flows
to be buried underneath
our mother's coat

i am dying in the moonlight
suffocating in all the dust
my mother left behind

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

these lines will be filled with rage
with hatred against myself
against the disturbing thoughts and
the fragile bones of mine

i am made of shattered glass,
of mislead paths,
a bad child in a world
full of good people

my thoughts make me
a girl of hell
my actions a demon
possessing her beloved

my mother cries in agony
as her oldest
deprives herself of food and life
but deep inside she knows
this girl deserves it all

All the brightness of the sun cannot
take my desire
to run my fingers through
the blue flame
how magnificent my hair burns,
and how magical this ease
with which my whole is being consumed
by you, reddish wolverine
you own me, I am thine

My drenched socks
the cold rain
the music playing
our overcast sky
outside, on the rooftop
without any warmth
just the endless
darkness of life
all wrapped up
in my little brain
and my throat hurts
but my breath still
forms white wisps
and I couldn‘t be
more dead
at least for tonight
because tomorrow
I will even die twice

i run my fingers
through the many shades
of my life
and find a thousand
******-up memories of mine
so i take a gun
and shoot them down;
i **** my brain

one cell by one

winter is knocking at your door
and you have forgotten how to welcome a long lost friend.
your fourteen-year-old bones are rattling, your feet are cold and you want to slam your head against the wall.
winter is looking through your kitchen window and you are six years old again and hide under the dark brown piano. winter has come to remind you of your darkest dreams, but you close your eyes and cannot be seen anymore (you are now four years old). you want to dream yourself away like you always have, escaping into worlds of blooming tulips and slow dances. winter is knocking at your door, so you make hot chocolate for two and decide to say hello (you are nineteen, and you have learned how to survive).

the snow started falling faster when you left
and the gravel beneath my shoes now remains quiet
it was the worst kind of theft
and even though it has been many winters
of ugly cries and silent fights
the earth still mourns the loss of you, see,
the wind still sings sad songs in this cleft
that you created
day after day I must withstand the desire to let myself fall, like snow, from far above,
until I hit the ground, until I find you,
my love

lavender scented soap bubbles on my belly - hugging the weight I’m not destined to lose.
you smiled, I heard it in your warm voice.
today your daughter does a good job of holding herself together.
the pale moonlight behind closed doors tells me to stop reopening old wounds and I listen. maybe for the first time in months.
I took a bath today. the size of my legs are just the size of my legs, and the sun will rise tomorrow - even behind closed doors.

and maybe, I whisper to my body, you are not as evil as they say. maybe you are just a byproduct of something much greater.

it's the maddening hunger
that runs down my spine,
my nerves, they are loose,
glowing like fireflies
I cut myself open for this glory pain,
like the sky opens itself
for the pouring rain
a reddish coat covers my pale skin
and I feel great
  I am sane, sane, sane

I am a burning, fragile spine,
a dark pinch of art,
spending all hours of the night
waiting for familiar aches,
while the embers glow dimly
in my heart

and we are vulnerable,
shattered, and the
hills sleep in silence
oh it is magic,
our tiny feet
in the soft grass
dancing to the beat
in this world of glass

My old eyes follow
the mystic shade
of your red waving cape
that’s vanishing into
paper towns

I wanted to turn off my body
as if I were a light switch;
between
razor blades, books and sick people,
I stood there, unable to feel myself
and didn't understand that my behaviour should be the easiest to influence.

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

your glassy eyes
tirelessly staring at mine
   we both keep our lives
out of each other’s sight
still, we sleep in the same bed,
but our hearts do not beat
in the same rhythm, and
when we touch we cannot feel
    each other’s warmth

oh our tired bodies,
fighting against these constant
urges to run,
   far, far away from ourselves
and rain is pouring down our backs,
even when the sun
shines
  
but darling,
our love has ended many times
once in September, once in July
    we will find back to
    each other again,
when we’ll have crossed oceans
in search of our light
     maybe in June, maybe in May
our love will revive

[ I promise ]

I feel as if the sky with all its shades of blue
and all its different clouds
is some sort of weighted blanket.
And sometimes
this huge layer wraps around me, carefully, almost as to make sure I’m okay,
before it suffocates me with invisible mist.

It‘s four a.m. ,
my lungs still breathe
you in and out
and my heart still aches
for yours

it isn‘t until you tear up again
that you remember the nights
where you have slept
shattered on the cold wooden floor

these moments where you
have begged the moon for
forgiveness and sleep

desperately trying not to
fall through the roof of the
room under yours

you try shutting down but
the memories flush against you
knocking you down like a tsunami
and you know that you will
never, never feel whole again

my arms wave in the wind
I am here alone
melting into a puddle of grey
the sea level has risen
and you cannot save me anymore
tonight the ocean will gain
another lost angel of august

it is spring and I hum to turquoise beginnings
Armageddon is not today, I remind myself,
to be born and reborn; I am formed like clay
I am the sound of people winning,
Las Vegas and its men in grey,
I am the infinite seeds of tulips,
and the sunlit tides on a golden day

it is spring and I do not belong in warmer spheres
the devil holds me tight, I remind myself,
I am not yet gone, I still walk by his side
I am the only remain of my shepherd‘s geese,
I am tied to this hell and all its pride,
and I am the hell, and I am the pride

I am lost in my body and in all it contains,
I hum and I cry, am in pain or feel high,
I am the moths in my closet,
and the clothes, and the clay,
I am the seeds and the tide,
and the only lost goose here in May

right now my hands hold me tight,
so I remind myself:

it is summer, and you have decided to stay;

The parched soul
Yours, which now rests above
Look,
Our eyes tear lifeless;
Arrows through the ripped-out heart.
The almighty pain,
How it tears us apart.
Who are these cabals,
The desecrators of finiteness,
Driven by divine voices?
Oh, come back darling

I shed like a snake,
the outgrown coats of my childhood are rotting in a corner of my closet.
I thought by now it was unethical, but you keep on wearing the fur of a tortured mink over your shoulders, and I keep on crying over the fights I caused but didn‘t win.
They smell like forgotten memories that I no longer fit in yet can‘t rid myself of.
Every New Year’s Eve I am reminded of the dreams I had (and you had, for me) three-hundred and sixty-five days ago, still moulding in the written hopes of gift cards from past birthdays.
I cannot escape, mother.
You have passed down to your child the inability of overcoming genetic failure.
Stem cells in your body are filled with hatred for the birth of your daughter and the flowers she kills along her way.
Grandmother has managed to leave behind her house, her life, her skin. And you still long for hidden hope you’ll never find in her sewing boxes, you still wear the same old sweaty leather that she had managed to burn.
We will never escape the consequences that came with the anger of our fathers. The doors may be shut now, but they weren‘t back then. Even though you replaced them, the traces of slamming, hitting and shouting remain. I am an adult, but I will always be your child, throwing tantrums and spitting poison.
Maybe they were right all along, the abused ones really does become the abuser.