To learn that you are human is to break apart.
I am a scatter

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You storm through me
                                                               the dust does not settle
I will never know myself again.

There’s no room for me in my own life.  My body cramps and contorts to fit into the narrow little space you’ve allotted for me to occupy, and even then, you manage to take it all up. You’ve barged in on every aspect of my life. It doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. Yes, my life is yours, to do with what you will. You are a god. Omniscient. Omnipotent. Omnipresent. You are everywhere. I am not a fully formed person at all; I am a child clinging to her father’s hand, lest the evils of the world ****** her up and tempt her to sin.

It's hard to know from where you rang out, and how the tone changed from memory to sorrow. Perhaps all those little cuts from the knife of Aristotle came with a price. Or maybe the polygraphic wildlife detected in your letters, enough to stir the inner fabric of my womb, drew out the scent. This is more than obligation, child. This is about the seasons of force or choice. And how the aural disintegrations from your mouth sound so effortlessly submitted and submerged. I fear they've turned to acceptance, their floral remnants as besieged as a Sarajevo Rose. My love for you will never live on the margins. This love is a tree-lined battlement. An endless voyage on the barometric sea.

It's so hard to know from where you rang out. But worse, I suppose, to hear nothing at all. Nothing until ambulance day. And the words a mother should never have to endure.

I waited on many mothers with their daughters today.
my last table had a prada shopping bag with them.
they stayed an hour after my shift ended.
did they think
I didn't have a mother
waiting at home?
...
of course, my mother wasnt at home.
she, too,
waited on many mothers with their daughters today.
i wonder if she realizes,
in another life,
we would be at the table
with a prada shopping bag
too.
give me a few years, mom.
we'll get there.

My mother recently took me to another doctor
she said, ‘her condition is becoming outrageous ,
she hasn’t laughed in a year, avoids any talking,
never leaves the house until the night draws in. ’

And I think the sun should rather concern her.
Burning things don’t make good companions.
Bought a ticket for a train, northbound at night,
my eyes hurt from the condolences of daylight.

Went back south in September, I surrendered,
had to promise to be good again and presentable.
Indifferent on life, did I suffer from depression?
It’s not been an illness but a philosophic decision.

One Sunday, it was quiet during breakfast time,  
somebody from town recently took their life.
Rised brows behind the newspaper’s edges,
secretly, I admire the courage and recklessness.

But I act eager and am polite with relatives,
at holiday occasions I behave and give kisses
until one proposes a toast to life being a gift.
I say nothing in exchange, I feel guilty to exist.

It all changed one day, when I found me a lover.
He sins for amusement while I sin to self punish.
I love that he’s mortal, of a perishable texture,
hope to be buried, rot with him in the graveyard.

We agree on senselessness without any pity,
he watches me fail life and thinks it’s poetic.
We can’t hurt since there’s nothing to heal from.
A physical love wich in it’s essence is platonic.

He carved a headboard out of pine
And shaped it til’ a bird-shaped thing
Emerged. And then, he thought,
‘One could do worse
Than sleep beneath an angel’s wing’

‘Perhaps this wing will keep me safe
When darkness comes, when lights are dim
I’ll think of Psalms and sleep’, he said
But little did he know
What Heaven had in store for him

Until the day his daughter came
And with  her  daughter, rested there
And then he knew a miracle
Had waited patiently to come
In answer to his wooden prayer