I don’t trust people that drinks their own tragedy, it burns their throat, and they will spit you in the face  when you tell them that there’s no such thing as bad blood. I used to fall in love with hurtful people, I used to make them my muse. I sold my jewellery for their stories, and it got me addicted to caffeine and painkillers.

Let me tell you about tragedy, and let me tell you about the people I admire, and the people I am dedicating this poem to.
I’ve heard of my mother’s tragedy when I was in her womb; I swam through her in her scarlet years, just few years after her mother died. I was born in January, and I heard that the winter cried. When she gave birth to me, she never mentioned the tragedy. She raised me in pretty dresses and named me the sun. My father fell in love with my mother out of tragedy, there are things that are greater than disasters. I see the way my father looks at her, and I know he has forgotten how catastrophe has lived in his heart.
I know a boy who lost his father in the freshness of his childhood. He keeps him alive by saying his name. By mentioning him in the everyday conversation. He keeps his father close to his ribs, to his strong hands, to his beautiful body.
I ate brunch at my friend’s mother’s funeral, we ate dry cake and drank bittersweet black coffee. The funeral brought back old friends from childhood, we put honey on her sorrow, and then licked it away. We laughed softly, cause we cried heavily. Her mother was a woman of summer cigarettes and sweet wine. And it consumed her to happiness. She died of bad lungs, and I know my friend has forgiven her. For she visits her every April with flowers and a pack of cigarettes.

I don’t trust you if you are going to love me despite your tragedy. I am a woman that begs for forgiveness but has none to give. So darling, I beg you not to bring tragedy at my door. I am sleeping with it and I don’t like to see my affairs in the daylight.