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

Life is a game.
A game I don't know the rules of.
When I say nothing , I lose.
When I say something, I lose.
When I quit, I lose.
I don't want to lose.
When I say nothing they win and laugh.
When I say something, the win and laugh.
When I quit, they probably win too and laugh.
For who am I playing?
Myself? Them? The world?
I play because I don't know.
Don't know what to do.
But what if I could quit?
What if I could reset the game?
Would I be happy? Would I win?
Or am I doomed to lose forever.
Life is no game.
I can quit, but never reset.
It will hurt, but not like this.
Is is worth it? Am I lying to myself?
Yes I am. Life is a choice.
I make the choice to live.
Live even when quitting is easier.
Those are my rules for the game.
The game of life.