How do I write down
the facts
of the nine year old me,
shivering at night
at the thought of his eyes.
How do I tell a stranger
without any tears
that he can't be a father,
never could, never will.
These words get stuck
halfway my throat,
and the awkward feeling
grows.
Everytime I try,
second time
I see him go.

On some days she dances
and sings
it sounds terrible,
but it looks sweet
and careless.
She holds me and calls me
her sister-figure,
and I just follow her
with my eyes and
hold on to the moment
with every muscle that I own.

Some days her eyes remind me
of the last time I saw him.
They're not hers,
and she does things that nobody
understands
and she scares me.

Some days she breaks down
and lies crying
and screaming
next to our feet.
And she lets us touch her
to pick her up,
and for a moment I see her
as she is.

She is a lot of things.
Just as crazy
as unhappy.

She lies against him.
Washes his skin with her mouth.
He sleeps.
Sometimes he pushes her eager lips away
and she's hurt for some seconds,
than carries on
licking.
She tries to crawl as close as she can
into his warmth,
he doesn't even notice.
He's dreaming about a world
where every bird is slow
and every human lets him eat their meat.

One was filled with revenge and lust.
I released it in his bare chest,
with my legs wrapped around his waist
and my hair soaked in sweat tingling his face.

One I shot a lady with. On the right side of her head.
She cried. Her body was exposed but protected by the layers of foam,
floating around us.
Her back rested on my breast when I pulled the trigger.
I did it out of love.

I never saw a place like this.
With so many homeless people, junkies.
Every bench contains a hobo,
blurred ink on swollen vains.
Hasty tags fill the ******-on walls.
Eyes shoot through these streets,
dull, no spark of hope nor happiness.
Beautiful men without teeth,
digging through my garbage.
Sunken mouths and hollow hearts.

It surprises me,
how many times you still visit my thoughts.
I must have loved you.
Your stupid, arrogant talks,
as if you knew everything about **** and training.
Your white-trash romance,
that time you stood in front of my house,
a picked flower in one hand
a stolen tray of sushi in the other.
I loved the idea of us.
Teenage love, strong and
I know now, also short.
Our first **** on too much speed,
your friend in the same room
passed out and puking.
I didn't mind us fighting,
though I would have never admitted.
Familiar,
suitable for the Bonnie and Clyde thing
I wanted.
I liked waiting for you
worried
when you went out to paint at night.

But then, we went from trailer trash lovers
to bits of things we used to do,
in less than a second.

We live in fear
for nothing
and I wish
I could just see this
not say this.