Aug 2019
2 days
In 2 days I've learnt to hold my nostrils closed not to cry and to spray the house with floral mist.
Nothing else.
I feel it in my bones I don't belong here.
Amongst the people that speak my own language.
They speak such dirt, in a way that angers me.
Makes me want to sell my language at an auction.
Anger.
My mom told she'll never let me walk the streets of my city alone.
That this ain't no place for me but she still brought me here telling me that there's no place I wouldn't blossom.
Wrong!
It's been two days and I'm already withering.
Waiting for the hot water that's never coming to fill up my bath I'm daydreaming about never being born here.
I'm afraid of speaking in public so I use any other language, making others speak for me, forcing my sister to not blow a word in the language she grew up with.
She doesn't understand and I'm sorry for making her to such thing.
She doesn't realise her sister's a coward who's afraid of her own words.
And mama.
Her accent always gives it away so I hide.
Rotting in between the boxes in my room and whisper strumming my guitar hoping it'll put me to sleep.
This is no home.
No place for me.
But I've learnt to hold my nose and to not cry.
I am no such killjoy to cry at the hope of others.
Such blind hope though, I'd say.
Switching from:
"we'll never have money again"
to
"you shouldn't be so cynical about coming back"
It's something I don't understand.
I'm so afraid ill lose this language.
That I frantically write and speak just to ensure myself I'm not losing my mind.
I can't find the right words and I can't seem to be able to speak properly.
I still seem to force a laugh or too ironically I feel like I programed myself to do such a thing.
Calling and talking to people far away but close to my heart just to make them laugh, telling them I'm in pain but laughing right after like it's just a split second of regret that'll go away.
I've gone back to lying.
I've never stopped lying.
**** me.
Stealing signs off the street and acting like a stranger.
That name was always meant for me.
A stranger to the world,
My family
My friends.
A stranger to myself.
In 2 days I've learnt to hold my nostrils closed not to cry and to spray the house with floral mist.
Nothing else.
I feel it in my bones I don't belong here.
Amongst the people that speak my own language.
They speak such dirt, in a way that angers me.
Makes me want to sell my language at an auction.
Anger.
My mom told she'll never let me walk the streets of my city alone.
That this ain't no place for me but she still brought me here telling me that there's no place I wouldn't blossom.
Wrong!
It's been two days and I'm already withering.
Waiting for the hot water that's never coming to fill up my bath I'm daydreaming about never being born here.
I'm afraid of speaking in public so I use any other language, making others speak for me, forcing my sister to not blow a word in the language she grew up with.
She doesn't understand and I'm sorry for making her to such thing.
She doesn't realise her sister's a coward who's afraid of her own words.
And mama.
Her accent always gives it away so I hide.
Rotting in between the boxes in my room and whisper strumming my guitar hoping it'll put me to sleep.
This is no home.
No place for me.
But I've learnt to hold my nose and to not cry.
I am no such killjoy to cry at the hope of others.
Such blind hope though, I'd say.
Switching from:
"we'll never have money again"
to
"you shouldn't be so cynical about coming back"
It's something I don't understand.
I'm so afraid ill lose this language.
That I frantically write and speak just to ensure myself I'm not losing my mind.
I can't find the right words and I can't seem to be able to speak properly.
I still seem to force a laugh or too ironically I feel like I programed myself to do such a thing.
Calling and talking to people far away but close to my heart just to make them laugh, telling them I'm in pain but laughing right after like it's just a split second of regret that'll go away.
I've gone back to lying.
I've never stopped lying.
**** me.
Stealing signs off the street and acting like a stranger.
That name was always meant for me.
A stranger to the world,
My family
My friends.
A stranger to myself.
The first poem I wrote after I moved back
