What is this feeling in my stomach?
The butterflies flutter nonstop—I can hear their wings beating beneath my skin.
I feel them shift from side to side,
Claiming what little remains of me.

What is it?
What is this bitter taste rising through my throat, resting on my tongue?
Why can’t I hear the butterflies anymore?
Why do I still feel this?

My mouth opens, and all I spit is blood and glass.
The sour bile of what the butterflies once were grows thick—and I can do nothing.
“Spit them out, regurgitate them, let them go!”
I can’t.

I press my chest, and slowly my arms bind themselves around my belly,
Cradle of cutting kisses—kisses that now hurt,
And no longer heal the way they used to.

I rise from mourning, only to fall again, and the butterflies begin to flutter once more,
But they no longer beat like drums or echo like thunder.
They don’t crash against my walls or hide in my corners…
They are there, but not alive.

They try to climb.
I feel them fighting each other, pushing for space up my esophagus—
Once a path for all things good,
Now a tunnel for all things painful.
I hear them scream; their tiny voices pierce my eardrums and shake my bones.

They want out.

And I understand them well:
What good is a body that dances among broken hearts?
What use are shards beneath my feet,
Reminding me how little I’ve felt?
What comfort is the weeping of a soul grown weary?
What joy lies in the bottomless hollow of a body fed by illusions?
They were made for the sun—for joy, for love—
And all I can offer is an umbrella
For the relentless rain storming inside me.
Cold, decaying rain that stains the walls and soils my shoes, instead of washing them clean.

They’re almost free—
About to escape.
But I swallow them down once more,
Just as I’ve swallowed the bile of melancholy,
Just as I’ve swallowed the tears that swore, they would soften the blades of my sharp-edged heart.

I feel them sink slowly,
Their wings now still—they’ve accepted their fate.
I don’t want to let them go,
Because they’re all I have left.
They’re all I have of what once was pain.
They’re all I have of what once was passion…

They’re all I have of what once was love.

you said it was a joke,
about how you wanted to kiss me
you looked me
straight in my eyes
and told me,
"i could kiss you right now"
then pulled away after a moment.
your touch lingered,
i could still feel your hands there,
on my cheeks,
holding them.
i could still feel
your body heat --
you had gotten too close
close enough for me to still feel it
because even though you left
you were still there.

you said it was a joke,
but the look in your eyes
it was desperate,
like you needed a push
to kiss me
then
and there

Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.

Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.

Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.

Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”

Cisza.

Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.


BROKEN HEARTS

Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.

A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…

The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.

The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.

Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.

Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.

It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.

That is how it must be.

Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.

And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:

My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.

He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.

He survived to love and to be loved.

My heart was dance joyfully,
Without fear of breaking.
Like a little boy jumping
On a soft tender mattress
In grandma's room.

But you deceived me.
Turning out to be a ruthless killer.
The body screams in agony,
Calling for help from the Heavens.

I wear your eye around my neck now too-
The maximum skin contact I will allow myself with you.
What why had wasnt beautiful, and i will tell you why-
We will never choose guilt over a comforting lie.
Touch me now, and I do forswear
Never again will I picture your hair
Or your eyes, or your mouth, or your teeth or your smile
Or the feeling I get when your number's on dial
Or my masculine comfort in your feminine wiles.
Rule of three, rule of one, rule of nine
Don't think I want ever to call you mine.
But I will call myself yours, gladly will i!
And I will thumb the chain that holds your brown eye
We are Us, You and I, and we are forever we
Gladly I will hold apart from me.

"i don't know." i said.
"don't know what to do,
don't know where to go."
"it is dark in here." he said.
"dark in your head,
dark in your heart."
"it's okay." we said.
"okay to feel the pain,
okay to be yourself."

"it is your fault." we were told.
"your fault that the world is dying,
your fault that nobody believes."
"is it our fault?" our brain asked.
"can i ever do something good?
am i ever enough for them?"

"should i go?" my heart asked.
"yes." my brain said. "you should."
"why?" they're asking on the news.
"why?" the parents ask at home.
"this is why." my spirit is thinking.
thinking when i rise up, up to god.

So tired of being the owner of a heart that's broken
All I want is the courage to love with arms wide open
But everything I've seen and everyone i know tells me it's not worth it
But how could it not be worth it?
Every time I start trying to make myself better
My brain keeps asking does it even matter
The hardest thing about living with depression
Is when you lose hope you'll ever notice your reflection
But just like there's more than one way to hurt
There's more than one way to heal
And you deserve to know that your pain is real
There's gonna be some bad, but it's gonna feel so good
When you realize it's OK if you're misunderstood.
It's gonna take some time, but you're gonna be ok. Because for what it's worth, I'll be with you every step of the way