All of us began as sentences, stories,
untouched, unspoken,
craving a reader, a listener,
yet unable to abide,
fearing exclusion.

Now we are metaphors,
written in a shallow poetic form,
intellectually impaired,
unable to attain existence.

I spend every day and every night
swimming through my sorrow,
stuck on a brittle boat
with my absent shadow;
and after all these months,
forgetting habitats,
destroying every pattern,
it has to be said:
I hate myself
and you should hate me too.

And if you are a reader,
I beg you,
never stop listening
to the whispers
of every written word;
but be aware
each word,
you let inside your head,
will alter you,
in an unknown way.

Tears fall down your face
as you tear off the petals
off the rose I bought for you;
we both know
this will be the last time
you will speak my name.

“Answer me, young hiker,
I wonder why you dread the rain;
invulnerable part of the same nature,
are the two of you not likewise?”

“Don’t you dare to claim,
we would be akin.
It is not the nature I am reaching for,
it is the acceptance towards it.”

-

“Oh, young hiker,
where is it you will go?
Is the wind pointing your direction
or is it your confidence?”

“Oh, you settled human,
no answer I will give to you.
A path, no doubt, exists,
the way but is concealed.”