money is sacred to me—
because i never had it.
we borrowed bread
from neighbours
at the end of the month,
waited for donations,
and watched my father
settle his debts
to bar owners
instead of us.

i learnt to sit small
in the corner
with peach juice,
while he ordered
beer and pálinka.
he kept bottles in the pantry,
pretending we couldn’t hear
the corks easing free.

when i left,
i carried eighty pounds
in my pocket,
with a luggage filled with air,
a week’s worth of clothes,
a soft blanket, no duvet.
but a hunger for something
i couldn’t yet name.

it was freedom.
never money.

now, that it’s mine,
it does nothing to me.
it bends, but doesn’t hurt.
i saved, built with it,
learnt to breathe
on my terms.
it comes, and leaves
when it wants.
and that, to me,
is wealth enough.

A smile so innocent,perhaps sold at just a cent

The eyes of pure joy,even without a priceless toy

Even when the eyes couldn’t see, the end of this vast sea

Yet,the world,seemed so full of colour,
Even tiny little things,bloomed like a flower

An endless dawn,without being a pawn,
I wish I could go back,being a hopeless fawn

Funny little things and stupidity allover,
I dreamed I will go back,when the simulation is finally over

The definition of genuine-
Why couldn’t I find it in the ruin?

As the end was near, the story of "fear"
As if something got strucked by a spear,making the moon never so clear

The picture of a setting sun,crying for one last fun
But nothing could stop the time,wishing for a final,harmless crime

Untill the end of times,the dawn of eternity
May this piece,again and again,find its destiny.

“Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.”
E. M. Forster

There was no spoon feeding life to me,
gentle nibbles from a mind set on
sugar coating there would be more
days of blackberry thorned hours than sweet pudding.

How does one speak of horror
to a child who trusts fairytales
grow reality from glittered imaginations?

I learned so very young monsters
don’t leave when a storybook presses
them between its pages…They stalk you
at dinner tables, in empty rooms,
within the sound of voices oblivious
to screams trapped in the cage of your throat.

In the oddity of breathing terror circumstances turned
me comedian, precocious child full of questions,
a crybaby at scratches while silent in the clutches
of a demon.

In the etiquette of spoons never judge
the one who doesn’t hold it correctly.
She may be a survivor who’d rather
eat the soup than explain why she
doesn’t have an affinity for shallow silver.

Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.

We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘penised privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.

She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.

Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.

I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.

Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.

I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.

My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan

Opening my eyes I find myself in a raging current.

My body is thrashed against rocks cutting deep into my skin.

To the left I see I’m not alone…

My mom is with me.

Her body is submerged in the angry water but I see the bruises that cover her face.

I start to panic..

I have to save her.

Looking around I see a branch hanging over the water.

This is my chance..

grabbing my mom I tell her we’re going to leap for it.

She doesn’t listen.

She doesn’t even see me…

She’s too focused on her bruises and the pain they bring.

We miss the branch.

Anger rushes through my body.

Why won’t she let me save her!?

Why isn’t she trying?!

… again and again I’m thrown against the rocks cutting and bruising me all over.

Exhaustion fills my mom and she starts to drown.

Desperation sets in.

I must save her!!

Up ahead I see another opportunity of escape, a section of land that’s lower.

I decide I must throw her against it.

It’s impossible with this raging current but I am desperate.

As I get closer I go over to my mom, grabbing her I don’t even bother arguing I fight against the current and try to save her.

But the current is too strong, I am too weak, and we are pushed on.

My eyes begin to fill over with tears, my mind filling with the realization that I can’t save her.

That acceptance brings a surprising amount of freedom.

But I also can’t stand pain anymore

I must get out. I must breathe.

I search for one more escape.

I will not let another opportunity slip by.

I see another branch.

I give one last glance to my mommy and then I pull myself up and I’m on top, the water dripping from my body, the sun basking my skin warming it up.

My mom goes by, under and gone.

The tears run down my face.

Even as I crawl over to the dry ground they don’t stop it’s not until I lay on my back and feel the sun cover my face and the birds singing that they stop and I realize…

I am safe.

I held a ball today.  It had been too long that I did such a simple thing. To hold and bounce and catch. So long, I feared it would be a challenge. But muscle memory, child memory, father-son memory, cannot be so easily shaken.
I held a ball today: a luminous thing, found in the undergrowth, and now mine. I shan't let it go so easily this time.