yesterday I had a dream
of a yellow flower field
where i ran free
from all the pain
with which i went to sleep
my tears had grown the flowers
which i didn’t dare to pick
and there was
a small,
familiar bee
that stung
me.

I sometimes wish
i could cement my beating chest,
so my heart would no longer bend and break
under the weight of my emotions.

i hate the fact,
we held hands
on the cold January night-
we kept each other warm.

i hate the fact,
i let Your lips kiss mine-
i’m sorry
if i did it wrong.

i hate the fact,
your hands held my body
as if it was the most beautiful
violin in the world-
my strings broke,

i’m hurt.

i hate the fact,
we cooked together -
now i can’t look at food.

i hate the fact,
Your fingers ran through my hair,
as if it was silk and You, a sewer-
I want to cut it short.

i hate the fact,
I opened myself to You,
my home -
and You left;
please, come back,
You didn’t close the door.

i hate the fact,
my ears were so used to
the words you spoke
that Van Gogh no longer seems
like a man done wrong.

i hate the fact,
your eyes stared at mine
like a blind man saw the sky;
i can no longer find the constellations
at night.

i hate the fact,
Your soul hugged mine
so warm,
i felt home.

i hate the fact,
You came and took from me,
and like a broken cup-
i’m still spilling tears
over memories.

lastly,

i hate the fact
You had to leave
and so did all my parts
You’ve ever touched,
You’ve ever kissed.

They ripped apart  
so hard,
so painfully,
away from me
that i’m still

                      bleeding.

the cold crawling of a sharp knife,
tasting your blood bitter than truth,
yet
sweeter than sin,
whispering gently
amen.

ripping apart your look for tomorrow
filling your eyes with glasses of sorrow
how does it feel,
ending it all at once,
and yet painting your beliefs
with the color of the blood you bleed?

but don’t worry one stab cannot be that bad,
please, don’t be mad,
pull yourself together and
the warmth inside your soul
may survive;

it could.

but the knife fell again,
not intentional,
a small mistake,
carving a name
on the back of your
heart,

did anyone survive?

dark night is the bed
to which i come
mostly late,

strip my soul,
lay it down
covered in
memories of
black and white

nostalgia dressed
in a tear-soaked mess
wetting my pillow case

i’m falling down,
asleep;

dark night
is the bed
in which you
no longer wait
for me to come
mostly late.