Let's steal my father's car
even though I don't have my license yet
even though you're not allowed to drive in this country.
Let's run away to a place
where your parents aren't fighting
where your mother is healthy
where my family isn't toxic
where I'm not burdened with crushing responsibilities.
Let's roam endlessly under the stars
with only the moon to keep us company;
let's escape to a place
where the cops won't pull us over
where only you and I will matter;
let's escape to a time
when you and I can happen.
Let's drive away to a place
where our laughter will resonate
for miles around;
where your face will bathe in starlight;
where we can be the only lovers left alive in the galaxy;
where your soft lips can touch mine again;
where your fingers can draw patterns all over my skin
with invisible paint;
where we can fight until we make out:
your lips
my hips
your hands
my hands;
let's run away to a place
where nothing else matters;
to a time
when we can forget about the world.
Let's escape and paint the world anew
in screaming color,
in bright lights,
in loud sounds;
let's leave all fears behind
because you've been hurt
and I've been hurt
but I've had enough of being wary,
I've had enough of guarding myself.

Let's steal my father's car
and run away together
to a time and place
when and where together exists.

I'm sick and tired of this pride,
Of building walls around us,
I don't believe in
amori vincit omnia
but maybe I can warm your heart up
and you can stitch my scars up
and maybe this will be enough.

The first time I couldn't get out of bed, I shook so hard I feared my bones would shatter.
My mum never taught me how to deal with this excruciating emptiness inside me,
she never told me one day I could wake up and feel
like nothing in my life would ever matter.
She never told me there could be days and nights that pass by
in the blink of an eye
days and nights when I lie on my bed
and force myself to breathe --
because even breathing feels like a tedious chore.
She never told me I might wake up some day
and feel so tired, so tired that no amount of sleep
would ever make me un-tired again.
She never told me
I might sit on the bathroom floor some night
and feel the water run over me
feel it seep into my bones
and I might just sit there, for hours on end
until the boiling hot water that could leave my skin blistered
went ice cold and made me shiver --
She never told me that
I might sink nails and blades deep into my flesh
like voracious beasts because
it might take the pain away somehow.
She never  told me that
I might stay awake trying to lull myself
every
single night
while voices in my head
churned and churned and churned
that I was useless, that no one would ever love me, that I was incapable of being loved.
She never told me that my bones
would feel so feeble, fragile, that I would always, always feel
so cold.
She never told me
that I would sprawl myself on the bed, eyes wide open,
stinging
and I would wonder why nothing at all
mattered to me.
She never told me
that I would end up fearing the blinding daylight sneaking in through the curtains
because it means another day
of apathetic existence.
She never told me
that I would feel like a graveyard,
and she never told me that
a day might come when I look in the mirror
and see a ghost.
She never warned me
that the world might turn gray, she never
ever
ever
warned me
that panic would sometimes sweep me off my feet like a tidal wave
and I would lie on the floor/in a hole in the ground/on a bed of nails
and struggle for breath
and force my heart to keep beating --
for what I do not know,
because she never told me
that a day might come when nothing in the world would have a meaning.
She never told me
I would walk past snowdrifts and wish for peace
and crave to lie in one and let the snow cover me
until my lips were blue
and my skin was blue
and my eyes were cold
and I was finally as blue on the outside as on the inside.
That I would want to die
simply because there was nothing to keep me living.
That I would stuff myself with pills
so I could fall asleep at last.
She never told me.
She never warned me.
So when I went to her with my wrists ripped open and ragged
my hands warm and sanguine with my own blood,
she told me
We can get through this like family.
I don't know what family is, mom.
I only know what it's like to shake like a leaf from the chill, down to your very bones, when outside it's summer.
I only know what it's like to paint a porcelain smile on my porcelain face and feign interest
because just like porcelain I will shatter.
I only know what it's like to forcefully drag myself in the shower,
to forcefully wipe my chin from the *****,
to scratch slurs on my arms,
or else, to be ecstatic.
I don't know what family is, mom, because I've always pretended.
I don't know what family is, mom, because I'm made out of plastic.
I don't know what family is, mom. Dead girls don't have families.

To Sam*

We were stellar; we shone so bright, with our own light, spectacular, blinding. For a while there, you got me believing in forever. You made me think that somehow, a thing so pure, so strong, could last for an eternity. I was truly convinced that ten, thirty, fifty years from now, I'd reach out and your hand would still be there. I had faith in us, in how innocent and pure what you and I had was, in how love, true love, unblemished by carnal desires, could still have a place in our world. I believed in the simplicity of 'my soul loves your soul and it has been so since the beginning of time.' Your hand in my hand was the safest, most secure place in the world. I sometimes existed simply because of the fact that we were invincible and would last long after the stars had all died out. How stupid, how childish.
We were floating, building castles of thin air up on the clouds, and came down to earth not with a bump but with a crash. With an explosion. I sometimes stand in the middle of the living room, spaced out, and wonder, what now? I feel this whole in my stomach, as if a black hole has swallowed all my insides, and there's an endless void inside of me, and someone keeps punching me so I double up, but the fists don't stop- and then a moment of bliss, and it all starts over. A modern-day Prometheus trapped in the confines of my own mind.
The whole world's turned bellicose, and I don't even bother avoiding the shrapnels; could any physically inflicted pain hurt more than the storm inside of me? The only certain thing in my life went to ruins; turned to pieces so suddenly, without the slightest effort. And I think, were we really so brittle? If the backbone of my existence crushed so easily, what is there to say about the rest of my life? My strongest belief was shattered, and thus, all my other beliefs turned out to be evanescent.
I sometimes wish one of us had died. In this way, I would have someone, something external to blame, someone else rather than myself, rather than you, to hold responsible for what happened. Someone else, something else to be angry at for taking you away from me. Because now I am left with bitter disappointment at humanity's inability to preserve something so innocent and rare as the love we shared. But we're both alive, aren't we? Forced to exist separately, forced to breathe on our, and to build our castles in the clouds by ourselves, because when you break china dolls and crystal glasses, you don't put them back together. You just stand there with your hands bleeding from trying to pick  up the pieces.

It's mid-July but in my heart, it is winter;
I curl up in the back of a closet, wrapped in blankets
and the scent of salty water and seaweed crawls up my nostrils
until I'm choking;
it engulfs me, a cold embrace, the breeze piercing me
through clothes that somehow feel like a fisherman's net
twisted around me, leaving marks on my skin.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it is winter;
like driftwood washed upon the shore,
like sand sifting through my fragile fingers,
like an imminent sea storm, danger impending,
memories crush me.
Sunburnt skin, goosebumps and droplets of water;
bodies pressed, wounds left to heal
and scars that slowly fester.
There's something autumnal in summer,
gashes bleeding ink.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it's winter:
remember, remember when we used to sit
under birches, lashes shiny with droplets
of dreams,
remember, remember, bicycles, children with eyes bright and green,
freckled faces, salty-tasting kisses,
scorching sun and summer winds.
Midnight storms, skies lightened, torn
by lightning bolts --
July is not the time for eulogies,
remember lazy afternoons, you, me, the boat,
regret always tastes as bitter
as children's lips just slightly touching
far away from coast.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it's winter;
the tide will wash away another fisherman's corpse;
remember all the tales of sirens?
You never told me Death came with hair of gold.
There's nothing quite so sad as being sad in summer.
It is July, and yet outside it snows.

To M.

See, I should have kissed you.

I should have kissed you when I had the chance to. Should have pulled you closer, stood on my tiptoes, my hand tightly clutching your neck, and kissed you full on the mouth. Should have run my fingers through your spiky hair, smiling as your arms closed around me.

I should have found you, the taste of tiramisu still on my lips, and I should have kissed you, giving you a taste of the happiness in a box that you'd handed me so timidly.

Your voice still rings loud and clear in my head, I hear it when I read your messages, that distinctive accent, eyebrows raised, cheekbones moving. And that smile, so sly and cunning, your lips slightly upturned. I *should have kissed those lips when I had the chance to do so. Then and there, among tears and sporadic, almost desperate hugs, I should have kissed you. When you held on to me for just a little longer, your hug tight, your hands running along my back, I should have traced your lips with mine. I should have sealed that promise with a kiss.


"You never see a person only once in a lifetime," you whispered in my ear, your breath tickling me. "That's a promise," I choked on tears, "You hear me, it's a promise."


I should have kissed you; instead, I hugged you once again as you held me tightly and rubbed my back. I should have just reached out. Fate or whatever mystical force there is ******* us up pretty badly. If only I'd met you earlier. If only I'd known you before I got mixed up with the wrong person. I wish we'd had more time. I wish I'd done a lot of things differently. My heart drops in my stomach every time you say you miss me. Your voice will fade away. I won't be able to conjure up your face without looking at pictures, and all your familiar features will be blurred by time and memory. The ephemeral imprint of your skin against mine will soon be gone forever. My heart will grow cold.


The taste of tiramisu will linger, though. Always in the back of my mind, the unanswered question of what it would be like to taste it from your lips. Have tiramisu some time. I hope it tastes like me. You never see a person only once in a lifetime, but perhaps you only have one chance to kiss.

I should have kissed you.

Болиш ме -
разяждаш ме -
течеш като киселина във вените ми
и разкъсваш всички тънки връзки
между мен и моята същност.
Изгаря ме всяка целувка
като пламъци стапящи плът:
аз съм малка восъчна фигурка
в ръцете на качулатата Смърт.
Ти си беладона във виното,
бели пясъчни лилии,
змийска отрова по устните,
конник на бяла кобила -
вестител на всичкото зло;
ти си разпятие
и алена ябълка,
ти си грях,  
ти си нощ.
И разпилявам се също тъй алена, кървава,
разпилявам се като стъкло.
Скиташ в дъжда, като просяк омърляна,
в рокля разкъсана
и оглеждаш се в локвите,
мокра, мръсна прелъстителка
в ръката с нож.
А душата ми е затворена
между четири стени катедралени
брои минутите
до твоята поява -
точно
тридесет
и
три.
Ти си пясъчен часовник, запращам те,
разбивам те на хиляди стохилядни стъкла-
изтичаш като пясък между пръстите ми,
сол в раните
по китките,
които сама съм издълбала --
не спираш гласовете в главата ми,
ти жалка просякиньо
с кърваво червило
и ириси със цвят на нощ
и ереси
се крият в твоите ириси,
и белези
като влакови прелези
раздират кожата ти
кожата ми -
аз и ти, нима сме едно?
Пророк на всяко мое минало
и всяко твое бъдеще,
жрица на богове и богини
отдавна загинали -
в небеса мастиленосини
удавяш се,
ти, моя Атлантида,
порок (пророк)
и грях(и бях),
пречистване(потъване)
и крах (и бях).
Къде си? (Няма те.)
Къде съм? (Няма ме.)
Накъде сме,
не знам защото всички пътища
преплитат се,
кръстовища и скитане,
и
пъкълътсееопразниливсичкитемудемонисатук,
ах знаех си--
Тишината е оглушаваща,
валят куршуми
от страдание
по тънкото стъкло.
В главата ми си,
под кожата ми -
отмиват калните води от тебе мъката,
удавник съм
и диря
зов
покров.
Като мъниста по кристален под
и като белите пера на гълъба
обагрени във алено -
Устните ти шъпнат в ухото ми
омразата,
разкъсваш плът,
къде е  б о г.
Отразявам се в кристалните води на твоята повърхност.
Разкъсваш всички тънки връзки
между мен и моята същност.
Течеш като киселина във вените ми -
разяждаш ме -
Болиш ме.
Любов.

Светлината се пречупва в очите ти като във фасети на диамант,
ръцете ти пробягват по тялото ми болезнено нежно с хирурическа точност и остро
като бръснач --
и кълна се, кълна се, че всяка клетка в мен
превръща се в прах - като натрошено стъкло
като лед
като брокат (от кутийката в ръцете на тригодишно на букли)
разпилявам се разпръсвам се --
прашинка светлина на върха на пръстите ти
(аз съм Кай и ти се ледът в окото ми).
Всяко дихание си минор е и
разпилявам се
разпилявам се в ръцете ти
топла
увивам се като змии около китките ти
(Ах, колко езическо! въздишаш)
и пламвам.
Има нещо за змии и ябълки, което може би
трябва да помня --
смееш се и облизваш сока от брадичката ми
нищо греховно
            порочно
         и плътско
не ти е чуждо. Имам мастило
                                        във вените и искам
да го разлея по теб и да пиша
с пръсти като пера
всяка
премълчана
дума --

разпилявам се --
леда между зъбите хрущи хрущи троши се като кости
и месестата част на ябълката плът е --
разбивам се на хиляди стохилядни секунди безвремие докосването ти носи
играят сенки по стените
и (не)докосват се и тръпнат --
Флуорсцентно разливаш се, сияйно
и безгласно устните ти шъпнат
и трескаво
                            забиват се, разкъсват
           вени
           капиляри
           артерии
Безкрайността е просто дума  -
                                                проблясваш рубинено с цвета
                                                на устните ми,
                                                в небето ми си Сириус
и с пръсти проследяваш всичките галактики
на млечната ми кожа.

Проблясваш -- разпилявам се -- угасваш.
                             Фигмент на светлината
                                                                  и
                                                                     игра
                                                                              на
                                                                                   думи.