She dries her hands with the kitchen towel.
And apologizes for the mess
that isn't there.
She puts an apron
on top of her evening black dress.
She cooks eggs
and smiles with lipstick stained teeth.
I sit on the small kitchen stool
and read out loud
from a Terry Pratchett novel
laying open on my lap.
She giggles
and her laugh fills the small apartment.
She says she's so happy
and anxious
to have me in her home.
And I stare
at her back
and her messy braids.
They're falling apart.
I can't find the words
to tell her
that a late theater play
and fried eggs for dinner
in an flat the size of a cup holder
translate to salvation in my language.
I don't have enough vocabulary
to explain
how her friendship tastes
like chamomile tea when you're ill.
And how talking about boys with her
clears the cigarette smoke from my lungs.
Because she feels like starting over,
she feels like trust,
she feels like the new friend
you read about in novels
where everything clicks.
And so I'm left
with a butterfly heart.
And the only thing I can do
is thank her time and time again.

A glass of milk
in the dorm
with you
tastes like being nine
at the seaside
in my aunt's house
after a long 7 pm sea swim
in the yard
making waffles,
one with chocolate
second one with uncle's peach jam
third one with cherry jam
topped off with a glass of milk
I had to hold with both of my small palms.
A glass of milk
with you
tastes like nostalgia.

Forget
         me
             not
                 flowers.
I arrange them everywhere.
On my bed,
       in my pillow case,
                               in vases,
                                    on windowsills.
I'm trying to remember
the girl I was before.
I'm not sure
           who I was
                                   when I was three,
or eight,
                                                  or twelve,
or sixteen.
                     Disappointing
                               my
parents,
                                                  friends
and teachers
                          is easy.
I'm more afraid that little me
would squint her eyes in disgust
at the sight of what I have become.
But I cannot seem to remember
who I was before.
My thoughts.
My skin.
My hair.
They're gone.
I struggle to collect the things I am
in a tidy bundle.
                 Forget-me-nots
                 cover my hands.
Yet I cannot remember.
                  I practice forgiveness
only
                                               in theory.
But could they forgive me?
I'd like to think they can.
But
           I am
                       unsure.
Yet does it matter?
Would it matter
             if     they    didn't?
Or would it be better
             if    they   didn't?
Forget
        me
           nots.
Forgive
          me
              nots.
Forgive
          me
             please.

Oh, I swear,
I swear I will confess
of all the sins which poison the well
of the crusty diseased soul
I keep locked in a chest
in the most hidden dark path
of my muddled, mediocre mind!

I will confess curled on the ground
of my ungratefullness,
of my laziness,
of the egocentric refusal of
accepting anything but approval,
of the compulsive lies that
my lips and fantasy knit in a sweater
which covers the bare chest
of my uncontrolled rage.
To it all I will confess!

I swear I never asked for it.
I will try my best to assure you
that none of my faults are my fault,
but in the tangled web of lies
where I coddle myself to sleep every night,
I do not know what part of me is real
anymore.
So despite my assurance, I will plea,
don't ever trust me.

Please, I beg you to
inspect me,
inject me,
sedate me,
dissect me,
extract me,
remove me,
destroy me
and cure me.
That or just merely
crush me to bits,
(painfully but sweet)
on the operation table.

I swear I will confess
to the mess in my chest,
and after that
destroy me or rebuild me.
I can't remain this way, believe me!

August, my dear!
You're finally here!
We have to grab you a chair,
most certainly a beer,
oh, don't you dare deny
your seat on my porch,
because you and I know
EXACTLY what's going on.
You don't have to cry,
I know, I know,
I know what they're doing,
you don't have to say,
I know about the pressure
they've put on you again.
They want
the beach,
the sun,
the waves,
the drinks,
the heat,
the friends,
their love,
some precious memories.
You feel responsible
I know that much about you,
but you can't expect to make their dreams come true.
You're not a magician,
they are the ones who have to learn
how to fall in love
with June and July too.
But as long as you're here,
no, August, don't hurry, finish your beer,
I don't expect you to do anything,
just put your feet up and relax.
I'll just run to the basement
and bring that guitar
in case you decide
there is a song here you could write.

Should you hold up
the hollow crystal sphere
with the glass ballerina
up to the light
you will see.
Oh, how delicately
she drags her bisque slippers
with a crackling clink
across the mirror surface!
Oh, how delicately
her folding arms
paint excuses
with an indigo tincture
in the shape of questions?
Oh, how she drops
like a wilting little tulip!

I wish there was a substance
to the stories I tell.
But there's not much to be contained
within the walls of my cardigan,
ceramic rings
circling the joints and bones
of a hand too fragile
to hold solid concepts.
There is but an empty balloon
nestled in a stomach
craving appetites and fullness.
Words hollowed out
to hold scribbled strings
of disjointed thoughts
pulling and shape and meaning.
A ghost that's stuck
between wet cold rocks.

Lola-lovely-Manola
stuffs chestnuts from the park
in the pockets of her brown jacket.
She's the type of girl
who believes in astrology
and wears socks that don't match
on purpose.
She says chestnuts emit good energy.

Lina-bug-eyed-Malina
came sad to class the other day.
It was the type of sad
where the glass has been filled up
and when you try to drink it in one go
you can't speak and go silent.
She doesn't want to talk.

So imagine the surprise Malina felt
when she took of her coat at home
and found a chestnut had been slipped
into her pocket.
"A transition of beleif and love"
she called it.

I would like to put my palms before me.
Spread the fingers far apart
and watch daphne trees sprout between them.
Raise the trunks way up in the sky
until they reach mystic Titan
and its sirens at the bottom of the lake.
I would like for the tops to stop the winds
and hurricanes coming my way.
****** away the worries and anxieties.
Hide at the roots in calm silence.
I would like for my skin
to turn transparent
and then dissolve into gray and blue smoke.
If I could I would let my muscles melt
into crimson jelly
and let it drip through my nostrils.
Let the blood feed the soil at my feet
so that yellow and red tulips
grow up to my knees.
Crush my bones into a fine white powder
and let it drift away.
Vanish me into the air
and let me mix with all that is beautiful.

Our submarine floats
  according to plan.
    We have a map,
      we have a plan.
.
.
.
.
                       And THEN!

FEAR HAS INFILTRATED THE SHIP
.
Why? What happened? How did we get here?
.
.
.
We don't seem to know, sir.
.
.
.
Quick, I need you to play dead!
.
Lie down.
.
On the floor.
.
Yes, just like that.
.
I  m  m  o  b  i  l  e.
D  o  n  't   m  o  v  e.
S l o w  E V E R Y T H I N G d o w n.
L i e  a s  f l a t  a s  a  l i n e.
A n d l i s t e n t o m e.
.
.
.
.
.
.
We
will
be
just
fine.

Your eyes are illuminating my skies,
twisting their whimsical shimmers,
ricochets of burning golden sparks,
simmering down in graphite ponds,
holding the green water lily leaves.

Your laugh rings in my ears indefinitely,
a deafening gong of sanctity
scaring the birds off the bare branches
and it feels like a ritual.

My hands warm in your pockets,
loving you is being drunk on strawberry wine,
eyes shinning from their sockets,
oh how your eyes illuminate my skies!

Spiraling
                down
                          a pit
                                  of anxiety.

                     When suddenly


                          A

                          f

    ­                      r

                          e

           ­               e

                          f

                  ­        a

                          l

                         ­ l

                    headfirst
                    short
                    sharp
            ­        burst.

                          And then

P     r     o     c     r   a    s    tination
spilled         un   e   ve       nly

           on a tiled bathroom floor.

Oh, Winter!
You came just in time.
I was just picking up the leftovers from my afternoon tea with Autumn.
I have just collected the leaves
and glued them to the crunchy paper
of a notebook.
I have finishied
labeling them meticulously
with a black
thin
ball point pen.
And the notebook is placed
on a shelf of comfort and laughter.
And I have begun
referring to it as a closed chapter.
Now, tell me...
What will it be?
I see you've brought
delicate, silver snowflakes.
Shall I melt them into the hot cocoa
or shall I bring out the silver tupperware so we can dissect them?
Shall we be dining next to the fireplace?
Or shall we be dining out in the blizzard?
Please do tell me all the stories you carry for this season!

You were small - the town was big.
Your small hands - the big building.
Your small body - the familliar spaces.
Your small step - the close distances.
Time moves slow - stuck at a standstill.
Nowhere to go - somewhere to be.
The people you know - the whole community.
Being welcomed - near complete isolation.
Accepted - you stay.
Rejected - get out before you're unable to.

Your victorous return - a negligible event.
The people you knew - the people you've never seen.
The person you've become - the people who never left.
Big streets - shrunk.
Short distances - longer than ever.
Things you have seen - engraved with nostalgia.
Things that were unseen - beautiful jewels.
Time is unmoving- now you have space to thing
Nowhere to go - nowhere to be.

Relief and horror paint the sight
of an empty airport
and an abandoned mall.
I've seen them both.

But how should I begin to describe
the dread and terror
when the people in my country
have souls like abandoned buildings?

How do you explain the absent faces
and the grey souls in a land
where everything is slowly dying out
and any spark of life is just a memory
from fifty years ago?

How do you explain that
instead of haunted houses
all the streets are haunted corridors
and even if you ran away
the real horror is that
not a single broken ghost will try
to stop you?

How do you articulate that
you don't want to go
but you also don't wish to stay
just to watch your favorite souls
wither away?

The blue iris melts its petals
like the teary wax
on the musky walls of the lavender candle.

The butterfly crunches its yellow,
crisp thin wings like translucent scales
followed by the crashing echo in the mirror walls of the corridor.

The heat in the air blares in turquoise
somersaulting between the
invisible layers of humidity and oxygen
sticking to the skin like midday sunrays.

Right as my heart begun fluttering and
Even my friends told me I was aglow
Plain and simple I felt.
Loveable even.
And then right as I had finished
Cultivating the courage to stay
Exposed to your caramel stare holding
A promise quite tender and safe...
BEHOLD! The magic swoop which
Leaves you embarrassed and shallow.
Eyes which have moved onto another.

I've b l  o   w    n        my lungs clean
                                                           ­       e
                                                   k
                                        o
                     ­         m
of cigarette s
So why would you asumme
I wouldn't throw you   o
                                          u

             ­                              t
with the rest of the         trash
that cluttered my life
and poisoned my mind?

Time to the storks
moved as a wheel moves -
it was going in a circle but moving in its track.

They were on time this year- as they were on time every year.
They gracefully landed in the high above places
where they nested every year.

The oldest was Mr. Stork who lived on top
of the townhouse's chimney that was last seen puffing
back in Febuary 2001.


Somewhere in his wings he remembers
distant memories of a missing family
but that was oh so long ago.



The first few weeks were proper with the darling sun,
the children shouting and pointing, the spring soil wet,
the snowdrops, the tulips and whatnot things moving.




But then the snow came back.
From nowhere.
And it scared everything away.




It scared the people, the flowers, the sun and the food,
the warmth in his feathers, the red in his  beak
and he was now dipped in a sickly purple.





And the air was white from the ice, and he
who was mostly silent,was forced to call out
as his nest was coming undone.






And the wheel fell off its track.
And his calls remained unanswered..

Little lady,
let me remind you,
that you needn't compare
your swamp green scars
to anyone else's,
needn't compare
your copper abilities to
the platinum ones
of those marble gods you admire,
in order to measure
a worth which needn't be measured
on the golden scales of
self criticism and loathing.
There is space under the sun
for all of us.

I am the *******
who grounded up my bones
into a fine white flour,
who stuck sticks
under my nails,
until my fingers would be
opened red wounds
dripping blood on the muddy earth
beneath the legs
I amputated myself.

But,
Sweetie,
never in your wildest dreams
should you dare believe
that I would let you
hurt a centimeter of me.

The only person
who I would let hurt me
is the one only one I should belong to.
Me.

Tell all the monsters under my bed
that they needn't tuck me in at night
anymore.
I made a promise to grow.
I'll grow the way mama did
back when her hair was brown not silver.
Tell my monsters I grew out
of  chewing my nails,
picking at my skin,
***** fueled nightmares,
and a tobacco stained tears.
Tell them that I am growing out
of the fear footsteps in the dark
light up in my rabbit shaped heart,
that I'm growing out of the bark
my voice turns to
when I speak to my father.
Tell them I've grown out of
silly weeping over silly boys.
Tell them where there were cracks
now pretty clovers grow.
Tell them that I've found friends
who hold my hands
when I tremble with anxiety.
And tell them that
I hold these same friends
when their monsters threaten
to come from under their beds.

Tell them. Tell them how much
their little girl has grown.

The best lesson
I've ever had
was from a Maths teacher aged 33.

He said

The key to not being prejudiced
is loving yourself unconditionally.
If you can love yourself
if you can imagine loving yourself
no matter what you've become
no matter how you end up
you tap into a new source of empathy.