I stop reading.

I look at these clumsily scribbled words.

I look at these fine print.

And I reach out my hand

to the page

and touch these words

to know

whether they really exist.

I reach out

to grab onto that hand,

so I can come out of water

for a moment,

to take breath

and remember what it was like

to not drown.

For that moment

I keep reading.

I feel two lines etched on my face.

One longer than the other.

Feeling a little more colder

each time I step out.

They will lie there,

and dry there,

but never erased.

The direction you have looked at
all your life.
Looking for the lost.
Searching for the reasons.
Waiting for your life.
Look opposite that direction.
You will find a kind heart.
It won’t be what you want or need.
But it will be enough
to live your life.
Enough to make you
never want to look back.

The breaths not taken are accumulating.

It mixes with the tears not shed.

Creates a poison that lingers in my thought

but doesn’t flow into my blood.

To keep my barely alive to suffer.

Suffer from a poison of my own making.



Slowly I forget

one small detail at a time.

I realize it only when I see this gap in memory

that my frail imagination fails to fill.

Words are slipping out of my hands.

My thoughts are no longer mine.



All the parks have become graveyards.

Where tomorrow died a slow, slow death.

And it slips into an even slower decay.

In an unguarded moment

I saw what it is, to not see myself.

The fogged up mirror

didn’t let my reflection reach me.

And what reached me was

just a picture colored out of lines.

The more I looked at my obscured face,

the more I was convinced

that the faces was not mine.

The more I was convinced of the face being a stranger’s,

more easier it was for me to love and accept it.

If I could see myself as someone else

how easier it would be to live my life.

Not knowing what I know about myself,

not knowing what I think.

To  be what I am and what I am not at the same time.

How easier it would be , if this is

what I saw in mirror everyday.

How beautiful can be not knowing, not seeing.

Only smudged shades of colors.

A face not mine.