You asked me once
"What defines a man?"
I simply answered
"His words, his actions,
his relationships not only of the
present but of the past too."
What you did not understand
was the time i refered to.
Best of luck, i wish.

I'm a simple girl,
I only want few ugly things out of
this equally ugly world.
Hot showers on summer afternoons,
frozen desserts on stormy evenings,
old, sad rock songs on christmas day
and scribbling depressing poems on my birthday.

I like the comfort that I get from sitting right beside the door of a moving vehicle,
that the possibility of it sliding open
while I'm leaning on it feels like
my favorite warm blanket from childhood.
The idea that I could be sitting upright one minute
then the next, my face will be parallel to my knees and ankle
feels like my cheat cigarette stick after months of "quitting", it's that good.

And I love thinking about the probability in the fact that I might not wake up after tonight,
that this might be my last poem written.
That if I pop a bit too many pills,
I can just end all of these.
It's like I got magic under my sleeves.
But who the hell needs magic?
Instead, I wish I had a beautifully tight noose to put me to eternal sleep

I wake up. Quiet. The sheets beside me are cold. The sun shines trough the dewy windows. I look down at my brown knees. The nail polish on my toes is falling off. I close my eyes for a second and open them again. I leave my bed and look myself in the mirror. My eyes are as blue as the ocean, and I’ve got freckles on my nose. My lips are dry, so I wet them with my tongue. I can feel the warmth from the sun on my thighs. It’s silent.
     My mother enters the room.
     “Who?” she asks.
     “I don’t know” I answer. She leaves.
     I look at myself in the mirror again. I look pretty, with my tan skin as a contrast to my blue eyes. An eyelash has fallen off and landed on my cheek, but I don’t remove it. I look away, at the sun. It shines again today. I miss the ocean.

I'm the wounded swallow
With a needle in my arm and multiple doses of thoughts
I'm god of the world
That doesn't belong to me
Drowned in my bath
My own ocean
As deep as thoughts
As sweet as dreams
As dark as past
I still have that artist fingers
Which leaks the truth
The sharp knives that tears apart
I have demons behind my eyes
A stone in my chest
An aimed heart in my head, which I call brain
My candle still burns
By a different flame