I didn’t want to die running for my life,
Yet in the snake pit, being kissed by vipers felt sweeter
Than the bitter sting of men.

You cried on your lyre so beautifully
The winds stopped to listen,
And the gods obliged so mercifully
To let you take me over the threshold again.

If you can’t trust them, have faith in me:
Don’t look back and be my guide.
You never turned around when I followed for miles
The back of your head after we said goodnight.

But as your arms twitched the day I became a bride,
You can’t take me past the door again
And you look me in the eyes.

I don’t know if it’s because you love me too much
Or to say you got cold feet:
The outcome is the same.
You get to live unscathed and nothing of me remains.

They met on the equinox like spirits out of an ancient myth,
To paint the leaves gold and kiss the summer goodbye.
For a brief moment, everything did turn shiny and new, solid.

But Frost came, reminding that Nothing Gold Can Stay
And they grew brown and dry.
Winter went by,
Silent and haunting like a ghost:
White sheets thrown on a body made of fire to suffocate the flame.

They met again for a pink and a red moon,
In some mystical manner once more,
To break and wreak havoc
And divide.

The storm drowned Percy on the coasts of Italy, 'heart of hearts' written on the stone.
They sent his to Mary in England,
Its resting place a dusty drawer for years.

At least he didn't turn around to see her,
She didn't disappear.

Like a 21st century Snow White in her crystal casket,
You can find me in the frozen aisle, lying on a bed of ice cream tubs and chicken kievs,
Unconcious.

Slide the plexiglass door open,
Pick me up.
Do not worry if your freezer looks too small,
I can bend, I can fold.
You can consume me tonight, tomorrow, next week, six months from now and I won't expire.

It doesn't take too much to cook me,
Yet it shows you haven't done enough cooking in your life to know
That once meat is defrosted, you can't freeze it again and expect it to taste good.

I killed all my plants by watering them too much.
I got so upset, I turned into a grumpy old man, shoUsing at people to stay away from my yard.
Still my sisters walk on the grass and I'm so glad they are

We don't share our blood: I have chosen my sisters and they have chosen me.
They are my sisters because they saw a present and not a parcel bomb, they weren't scared to open me up.

We are sisters because we've built a home from nothing, a family out of thin air.
We are sisters of the moon, witches, like in a cheesy TV series.
We bottle up each other's tears and brew potions to cure broken hearts.

We are each other's therapists, cooks, seamstresses, teachers, painters, muses.
Each other's conscience, speaking the hard truth, each other's mirror: reflecting the same image, yet one we wouldn't be able to see for ourselves.

Today I had an abortion.
I held the foetus in my hands, still hot, covered in blood, so tiny, yet so recognisable in its incomplete finishedness.
I was at a loss, it hit me slowly at first, then all at once, I started to cry.

It wasn't unexpected, I've been having this weird feeling lately, as if I knew that I wasn't going to see it live.
I felt like that from the start, to be honest, my stupid paranoid head couldn't avoid the thought, but why worry? Everything was going fine.

I don't know what caused it, if you ripped it out, if my body rejected it, or if it just wasn't the right time; maybe all these things together, in the end it takes two.

And so there I was, looking at this unborn being, staring back at me with your eyes, finally ending the dying life we put on it from the first moment.
The organs and the limbs all at the right place: I could see what they could have been, if they hadn't been so weak. It looked like that undeveloped Polaroid I took of you that still lies at the bottom of the drawer: I know what it is, but no one else can see it.

I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to let it go, I couldn't throw the remains away, not yet.
I put them in a shoebox, under my bed. I'll have a beer, sleep on it, tomorrow I'll see.
I have to get used to the emptiness first, I have to untangle myself from around your fingers, get some paracetamol for this ******* headache.

In my dreams I saw a door, ajar.

A ray of light filtered through the darkness I was in, still I was afraid to open it. What if the light is so bright to leave me blind?
It took me a while to get used to the blue mist that covers everything in the dark, I'm not going to throw the effort away.

There were people going through the door; I caught glimpses of the room and seeing that there was nothing to fear, I got closer.
As I put my hand on the ****, I felt myself swing back and forth, being crossed from side to side, slammed, opened again, pushed and pulled.

I was the door: always a way station, a passage, a portal, something to be through with at some point, and never the room, never a place to dwell, never the destination.

I was bound to stay at the door, neither out, nor in, stuck in a limbo.
Never allowed in the room, kept away from the business, away from conversations, parties, meals, away from the endless stream of everyone else's existence.
Always a silent observer, peeping in.

Love,
I've been trying to smother you with a pillow for the past few months.

I also thought I killed you, but today I don't know anymore, I can't rest my head on the ****** weapon and sleep peacefully.

I'm not a violent person,
killing is against my nature
and just the attempt is the most painful gesture I have ever made, forgive me, I had to.

Because I am me and unfortunately not someone else, certainly not someone you could want.
The difference is that I have to live with myself, without you coexistence is, if not pleasant, at least bearable.

And so I wanted to **** you, as I had already done with my parents.
What better way than to leave you with no air and let you squirm under your antithesis, which is not hatred, in fact, but refusing to feel something for fear of feeling anything at all.

I don't know what's going on tonight, you are alive and I can't stand it because I am still me.
I wish I could tell myself that I can change and be worthy of you, but I know that it's not true.

I know that when you are here I will still look at you from afar without saying anything, love,
because you are beautiful and you don't know it and I think someone should tell you.

But not me, it's not from me that you want to find out and it makes perfectly sense.