Good girls

I wrote this poem as quick as one breathes. Having lived in Spain for a few months, I realised I am always searching, unconsciously, for someone with whom I can go back home, at night. My parents always tell me to text them once I am in my room, no matter the hour. I know they care about me, but I feel this itchiness inside of me, why? Why does it itch? What is it that itches me? Sometimes I come up with excuses not to go out, because I know that by the time I will want to go back, no one will want to come along, and I am scared of going by myself. In the city where I am studying, back home, my friend and I were followed by someone who threatened to push us in front of a car. During one night, at 2am, I thought I heard someone at my door. Here, in Spain, I felt as if people were following me, twice. I know people who have been sexually assaulted. I have my experiences, too. All of this had to come out, and it did.

This poem is written in solidarity with everyone who has gone through something like this, and dedicated especially to all the women out there, who are fighting for their rights and their place in this society. The rise of women does not equal the fall of men, remember.

Here I go.


one saturday night, while lying in bed

I realised I have never been this scared

it might not have been me, not yet, not all the way-

but it was her, it was them, right on that alley

it was a friend, a sister, a mum, a small brunette

green eyes, blue eyes- not important; small skirt, only said in the gazette

with small letters, a small voice read it on the way to work

‘’see? this happens to those who stay too much in the park’’,

a mum warns her children, a dad looks his daughter in the eye

‘’you will never, under any circumstances, disobey

you will do as I say. be home by nine o’clock,

eat dinner, clean the dishes, do your homework

red is for sluts, wear something white.

{it hurt like a flea bite}

be a good girl.

be a good girl.’’

we were taught fear comes natural, as one breathes

better safe than sorry, oh, how it rhymes

but I was safe, we were all safe, were we not?

we were only hanging out

with our friends, whom we trusted, who held our hands

when we went to the beach at night, right in the midlands

of a rotten relationship- he was not sincere enough,

one friend would say, covering her wrist with a huff

he was very kind, he bought me wine and he stayed by me

but he said ‘come on, baby’ too many times while pressing his pelvis into me

‘‘you liked it, don’t lie, I heard he is very good’’

‘’I guess so… maybe… yeah, you could call him ruby wood’’

we trusted people, maybe we were too naive

luckily enough, we were wearing the right clothes to grieve

that came natural too, like everything else,

except for the pain felt in the bowels

of the stomach, as if life itself

took a knife, aimed and stabbed herself

in the centre of the square, when the sunlight hit her head at ninety, at noon

to make her learn a lesson she had to know since she was in a cocoon.

her parents, how could she tell them? they will surely tear her apart

‘’no, I cannot tell this story again, from the start.’’

she realised she had no escape

nowhere to run, it felt like a tape

she wanted to rewind, her hand got stuck inside

poor Bonnie, without her Clyde.

she sat down. pressing the knees at her chest,

waves of shame washed her over, just like another incest.

It’s over for me. ‘’{quick}, get me my coat’’,

she yelled at the butler across the road, acid burns in her throat

she picked up the phone and dialled a number she memorised

long before any man could make her feel mesmerized.

the client cannot be reached. Would you like to come back?

‘’no, that will not be the case’’, she said with a crack.

then she cracked open, on the stairs,

The media came to report the state of affairs.

 

(((Hold on, what do you mean

I’m not stuck in a dream)))

 

 

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Letter to Jonghyun

 

    Note: This article was supposed to be posted only for the magazine I write, but it got rejected. It was written more than one week ago. I still feel that this topic is relevant and this is my way of reaching out to anyone who is going through a hard time. This is my farewell to Jonghyun. 


These days I have been dealing with a lot of things, and my mind is a bit… tormented. I have been preparing for my final exams and although there is a lot to study, a lot to take in, in one of my classes, I study with my heart- if this is even possible. I am talking about my Theatre class. Among other plays, we discussed A Streetcar named Desire and I was shocked to find so much of myself in Blanche, the main character in the story. Halfway through seeing the movie, I realised I was crying and I had no idea why. I could not pinpoint exactly the reason, because there was more than only one thing. She somehow spoke to me, in the exact way I needed someone to speak to me, in order to cry… and cry… and cry. There is something about her that makes me think of myself. There is this moment in the play when she says something which has stayed with me since I read the play, 2 weeks ago, it goes like this: ‘’There is so much confussion in the world…’’ To be quite honest, I am not sure I can explain to someone how much of an impact this had on me, and most importantly, I do not understand it myself, but I feel it with every fibre in my body. I believe this line encapsulates the truth in our world, today, as well. And the truth in my world, too, my small world that consists mostly of black wiry thoughts. Wherever you turn your head, whatever magazine you are reading, you cannot escape the sadness, the anger, the horror brought by what people do, in every part of the world. We destroy ourselves, we destroy this world, little by little, and yet we still act surprised, we still complain, we still try to appear innocent.

One look at the young generation and you notice how many of us are struggling with depression, anxiety, anorexia, and all the other illnesses that eat us alive. How did the list get so long? When did we end up like this, how? How do we escape it? And why? Why me, why you, why him? Why anyone? Why does anyone have to deal with this? The truth is, mental health is so fragile, this will never be stressed enough. There will always be people who will try to belittle others, who will hurt others just because they think they deserve that, people who will attack others for their own enjoyment. We need a safe place, do we not? Some find it in books, some in music, some take up painting, some dance until their body is barely able to move. Some people find consolation in another person, a lover, a friend, someone from their family, or… an artist. Someone they admire and grow to love deeply, despite not knowing them personally. But that artist, he or she has something that spoke to a soul searching for salvation and made it easier for that soul to get up in the morning, to go to work, to put one foot in front of the other. That soul does not even need to or can describe the affection it carries for that person, but it’s there, clear as the rays of sun filtered through the window in the morning.

The artist I want to talk about is no longer among us, but this is exactly why my heart wants to talk about him. Kim Jong-hyun. Main vocalist in one of South Korea’s biggest K-Pop bands, SHINee, dog-lover, a talented, passionate artist, who did not fear opening up about mental illness, a kind, warm person. This is, I believe, the usual short description that would be used in an article. And then people would go on talking about his mental illness and try to raise awareness, which is amazing. But this time, I want to stop and think of why did he become so loved, so appreciated, so cared for, by so many people. He was so much more than those things, he was more than his depression, he was more than another digit in Korea’s growing number of suicides, he was more than an idol. I was curious what type of feeling did he give people. What did he make them think of? A colour? The sky? Hope? The smell of rain? How did he make them feel? How and why did they notice him at first, why did they grow fond of him? How is it possible that he was able to somehow help them in their darkest times, when they were struggling to breathe normally, at 3am in the morning, and when their families or friends could not? What was it about his voice that soothed their chaotic minds? This is, truly, the testament to someone’s character, I thought, and started asking people questions. 

Someone said she could feel his passion, that soul-aching passion of his, as if he were right there with her, singing her to sleep with each and every line. It felt as if he were really there with her, when she was breaking down. A friend of mine said the same thing, but she said there was only one difference: he knew at 3am she did not need motivation, but understanding. So he quietly sang to her until her crying eventually stopped, until her eyes stopped itching, until her nose stopped running. It felt as if he were there, both giving her space to cry until she could no more, and at the same time watching her, making sure she would wake up rested or at least a bit better in the morning, after an exhausting night with herself and her dancing demons. My friend loved the rawness of his voice and understood what his voice becoming quieter towards the ending of some songs truly meant. The silence that he tried to cover with his breath. The silence that eventually would swallow him up. More than anything, he was genuine. His sadness, his tears, his struggle- they were real, but so were his smiles and the moments of joy he experienced with his friends, at their concerts, meeting fans, or anywhere else. He treasured and reassured the people around him, whenever he could. He reached out to show his support and that must’ve made a huge difference for those who needed it in that exact moment.

When I read the letter Jonghyun asked his friend to post after he is gone, I felt… cold. I felt as if the wind entered my bones through a crack in my spine and settled between my ribs, somewhere where I cannot scratch. He started off by saying ‘’I am broken from the inside.’’, and I think that simple sentence will forever be pinned in the middle of my supraorbital ridge, where the bone sticks out the most. I have been feeling apathetic ever since having heard the news. I have taken my exams, yes, I have been talking to my parents, to my friends, yes, but I feel like I am just doing this because I am afraid to stop and allow myself to suffer. For all the things I am feeling. I confess it is winter but this cold is something unusual to me. I confess today, on my way home, I cried, quietly, with my hands in my pockets, looking at the ground. I confess I am not strong, not anymore. I confess I wish he stayed longer, but maybe this world was too cruel for such a kind, warm soul and he just… had to leave. Jonghyun, I hope you are warm now. I understand. I know you are better now, away from darkness and this everlasting cold.

  For everyone else, do not hurry trying to reach him. He will be waiting for all of us, but for now you are on your way. He is resting now, you have to run, still.

 

Photo credit: twitter.com/imsorry_kjh

Forget-me-not


When I was younger I read somewhere that if you ever feel as if you are about to throw up when you are with the person you love, or your legs cannot carry your weight anymore, he is not the one. The right one gives you peace and warms your heart, he never makes you anxious and turns your insides out. At that time, I couldn’t understand what it meant. I didn’t think twice about it, and years later, when I found myself falling for the first time, my love was so destructive and oh, I was weak, so weak that I could be bent by the soft breeze of May. He turned me into a lifeless machine, always wondering where he is, with whom, when I was going to hear from him. I was empty but I lied to myself, I kept telling myself I am so in love that it drained me of everything else. I would look at myself in the mirror, late and night, and not recognize my eyes anymore, but I kept going. I kept falling in that abyss, emptied of sounds, or light, with an increasing speed. I was moving in circles and my head was spinning, my hands were trembling. I loved him, truly; but he was so wrong for me, he desecrated the frail temple inside my ribs which I had been building for years, just like the wind shatters leaves in late October and shreds them to pieces. He blew over it and the house of cards fell to the ground. He never looked back to see the outcome of his devilish work, although my screams could be heard from the other side of the Sun in that cold day of January, when my soul, which suddenly turned a shade of gray with circles of rust all over it, was shattered on the concrete as I was desperately trying to make my numb feet walk again.

I fell again, twice, but for a short period of time. My love was quickly consumed and I was left with a vague perfume of something I had once hoped for, but never happened. I was sad at first, and my heart grew heavy on me, but each time I came to realise that it was whispering another name, and I had yet to find him, so I mistook him for them because I stumbled upon them.

Now, I have finally decrypted the code and his name falls naturally on my lips, as if it were made for them to say it, like a single-word prayer. Now, I have finally found meaning and  each time my heart whispers his name, I am able to say it in sync with her. Everything I have ever felt fades away, it’s like I have just woken up and I found the meaning I was searching for so long. He gives me peace, his voice calms me down and silences my demons, my heartbeat synchs with his, without me doing anything. I have been falling asleep to his voice, for such a long time now, reaching out my left hand to where his is supposed to be and marking the spot with my fingers, tracing lines and shapes with my index and reshaping the world from my bed of one. When I close my eyes and think of him, I feel the wind blowing and caressing my arms, my chin and stroking my hair, and I know it was sent by him. It’s like he is everywhere but nowhere to be seen. I feel him in the trail of light that travels millions of years and in the first rays of sunshine that touch my wrists in the morning, warming my veins and creating a new map every time I move my arm. I feel him when I run on the bridges in the city and I feel the heat rising up and taking over me, I bathe in the sunlight until I count to 3, as if he were touching my neck for a brief second, and then retreating his hand. I feel him when it rains and I’m sitting at my window, looking out and counting the rain drops while people hurry with their umbrellas, too busy to notice how the earth smells, and how the shadows of the past rise and walk with them, under their umbrellas, gently touching but not being touched. I feel him at night when I am lying in my bed and I draw the map of his body although I cannot see him, I draw him and then settle in between the curves of his body of smoke, glued to him in all the right places.

It’s like his voice, his laugh echoes from the other side of the world and it’s carried over by the waves together with the wind and it travels with a speed of a 1000 kilometres per hour. It’s like there’s this chord that begins somewhere deep in my ribs and it covers the whole Universe, revolving around it for 77 times and a half, and the end always points at him, wherever it may be, wherever he may be. It resembles a compass, always moving, always pointing to the North of my heart, and it will never slow down, it will never lose the race with time. Someday, when this chord, when this string will point to a city found at 129° E and I will start following the path, I will raise my eyes and he will be there, at the end of the bridge, looking at me, and I will suddenly be at home.

It has never been simpler than this: I love him, my heart is tied to his and I never felt so close to the particles, to the atoms that make up everything, myself included. I look at the world and I see all its colours, its shades and shadows, I see people and their sorrows, I listen to their heartbeats and touch their cheeks when they doze off. I look over the river whenever I feel that I haven’t visited it for a long time, I caress the sea with my small hands and I love him, he’s the centre of my world and everything moves along with that. Spring has come and the string is pointing to the left, I take my bag and start putting one leg in front of the other. I look up and I see that the sky is pink as the cherry trees, this means the wind will be by my side soon. There’s this road ahead of me, I think it’s the right one, I have the morning star on my right side and as I am advancing, she runs towards me and when she’s tired I reach and hold her in my pocket and watch over her sleep. I walk and walk, I will get there until the spring ends, or maybe in the beginning of fall.

I look around me and I know I can paint the sky from today’s morning, and from yesterday as well, I know I love and I am loved, I know that our souls will meet each other one day, because they both have the same hiding place, it’s just that I’ve woken up earlier and the Sun hasn’t risen yet where he is, here the dew covers the grass and the air is thick, impregnated with the smell of all the forget-me-nots. I stop and marvel at the sea of blue until my eyes turn a shade lighter and my skin smells of them, I take one with me and put it behind me ear. I know my feet will get tired, and so will my back, but I will find my way, I’ll walk on the top of the sky and then get back on earth, I’ll fly on the tail of a comet for a few days and then swim on the back of the Moon. I know I have found my voice and although it’s cracked I will shout across the sea until it reaches the edge of the world and echoes back, until it reaches him and he meets me on the road, a forget-me-not in his hand, our blue souls in between us, dragging our feet closer and closer, until there’s no me and him, there’s us, there’s one.

‘’Forget-me-not’’, I said a million lifetimes ago, and you never have.

Sea


my thoughts were racing the waves, i still don’t know who won in the end.

 


 

It was September. The sea was getting angrier by the minute. I was sad without a reason.

 


 

The waves come one after another.

I’m wondering: should I wait a little longer?

 


 

You called my name today

I took my bag and followed you to the sea.

Where’d you run?…

 


 

I loved you a thousand times more

than I ever loved the stars.

I was a kid who’d been told to stay away-

I stretched my arms and ran along the grey alley

I saw the world; the sea; the sun- in the blink on an eye they all melted away.

{Parenthesis}


 

 

There comes a time in your life when you should ask yourself, or others do it for you, ‘’What do I wish for? What have I done until now? Good things, bad things? What do I regret? What I wish would have happened and what I wish would have not happened?’’ I am 20 years-old now, is it too early to ask myself this? Is it too late? Am I too late? I have been asking myself this for quite some time, and I think I finally have an answer to it. Sort of. I wish for peace. I wish to be kinder to myself. I wish to be gentler. I wish I would stop torturing myself and I wish my brain would stop overanalyzing every aspect of each movement, action, shade, smile, half-laugh, half-cry. I wish my chest would not hurt the way it does now, so often, so much. I wish sadness would be a 3rd relative that only visits around Christmas. I wish I would be so different, yet I am happy where I am now. I am happy of who I have become. I know myself, I know my strong points, my weaknesses, I know what I can and cannot do. I know I have failed, I know I will fail. I know how much I have suffered and I know I will suffer again. I recount the times I felt that was it, that was the time my heart would fail me. It took me long enough, too much actually, to depuzzle the veins and bits of it, and even now some pieces are misplaced, but here’s the thing… it’s my heart. It still is. I picked it up because I could not afford to have only my brain to guide me. I need my heart so I can make bad decisions, so I can suffer, so I can grow. So I can feel. And I feel…. everything. I feel the colour of the wind and the smell of frustration, I give names to feelings I never knew existed. I name them and I keep them with me. I pack them up in my bag and carry them around while I am travelling. I always grow fond of things, of people. And I let them hurt me. And I regret being like this, for a second, but then I don’t. Because have I not been like this, I could not have experienced everything I have. I could not understand the way I do. I could not see more than a hundred meters ahead. Pain, suffering, sadness, these are not things to be romanticized. There is no glory in them. There is no reason to boast over them. There is no reason to discuss which one of them is worse and measure the evil it produced.But those who are in pain, those who carry their sadness around, those who suffer, they can choose to deal with it and keep silent, or can choose to try to tackle it. To talk about it, in the way they know, in the way they can. In the way they allow themselves to do it. There is no right way to do this, no right way to experience pain or sorrow. Sorrow is sorrow. I chose to talk about it. I chose to talk about myself and my sorrows, and it is not an easy thing to do, because at first you get scared, then you get angry for getting scared, then you get insecure, what if you cannot convey what you are feeling? What if they don’t understand? What if your pain means nothing? But it does, darling, whoever you are, wherever you are, I am telling you this: your pain is not up for weighing and measuring. It does not need to fit a box in order for people to believe it is real. I promise you. I chose to talk about the things that hurt me, about the things that keep me up at night. I am still learning how to do it, the road ahead of me is daunting but I do not want to stop. I don’t think I can, actually. I feel like this is what I need to be doing. What I can do. Someone once told me, ‘’You are quite smart for a girl from where you come.’’ I confess I got angry. I confess now I am at peace because I know that my worth is not decided by them. I confess I still think of it sometimes, in those dark hours of the soul, where it is dancing in-between squares of night marble alongside the shadows that accompany me, but it doesn’t hurt as it used to. It is not weighing me down. Not anymore. It is like a corpse… a dear friend of mine told me once that she has always felt this huge weight on her shoulders. Ever since she was a little girl, she felt someone was following her, someone who needed to be cleaned up and dressed, someone who needed to be fed. A corpse who kept whispering filthy words into her ears… She listened to them, she contemplated whether to go with the corpse, because it felt so familiar, so warm in a way she could not explain to anyone, herself included. She had no sense of belonging, perhaps except that corpse. The corpse was hers and she felt the need to belong. She was only a child… She asked herself what to do, why does she have to carry it around? She had to write a letter to it, but what could she say? How to say it? She felt as if the corpse was crawling on her skin. I told her, ask the corpse why does it keep following you, what does it want? Is it lonely? Is it attached to you in some way? Why does it require clothing and washing up? What for, what for? Is there something to be done so it can be at peace, so it can live on its own? She told me she would write, she took her pen, it was shaking, she was shaking. The letter turned into a confession, it revealed all the despair gathered in the heart of a young girl who never knew what it meant to have someone with you all the time, except for that wretched corpse. She ended up apologizing and asking for forgiveness. I don’t know if it ever left her, she never brought it up again… I hope it did. In a twisted way, it was a part of her, of how she was, of her thoughts. I hope she sleeps better now. I hope she knows the river is nowhere near towards the end. She told me she is still kissing the rain every single night, maybe she misses it, and its cold touch. Maybe she misses her mum’s hands. Maybe she misses someone she knew long ago. Maybe she is just lonely, and the rain keeps her company when her horses are sleeping. Maybe she recites poems to the smallest of the raindrops and they understand her better than anyone else. And maybe that’s why I know all this, not because she ever told me, but because the rain did.

The things they don’t teach us


They teach us a thousand things. They teach us so many things and yet I feel like the essencial is always left out somewhere, outside the circle, outside our visual perimeter. They teach us how to analyse poems and plays, they teach us that a right pyramid has its apex directly above the centroid of its base, they teach us chemistry and sociology and how to distinguish between political parties and yet they fail to teach us how to touch another human being. They never teach us how to aproach someone, how to start trusting ourselves, how to stop blaming each other. They never teach us how to view others, how to understand. How to see. They never teach us that nothing comes back as it once was. They never teach us that things which are broken cannot be mend, even if we try our hardest. They never teach us to stop using words as weapons because we are afraid, so we attack without giving it a second thought. They never teach us to take risks, even though we may be wrong, even though we might be pushed back. They only teach us how to follow the path that they have been following, the path they know. They teach us the safest way. They teach us the simplest things. They stay away from the sorrow of the soul, they stay away from the shades and shadows of the blue hidden in between two corridors at night. They teach us how to be like them. They teach us that in this world, you need someone to feel safe, you need someone you can go home to. They teach us that we can and should weigh things a thousand times before deciding, before abandoning a cause, before running into the woods. They teach us that it’s cold outside. They teach us to be safe, to go together to the bathroom as girls. They teach us to be careful when we are wearing dresses or skirts. They teach us that there’s a timetable which should be followed. They teach us that people are mean, that we should always be careful with our drinks. They teach us how to work in PowerPoint and Excel. They teach us that in a few years we can have everything we want, on condition that we work. And what do we want? A house. A car. Someone to share the car with, on our way to work. A coffee machine to make two cups of coffee, one with milk, one completely dark. A dog, because it’s too early for kids. There’s time for everything. This is what we want, right? This should be what we want. It’s safe. It’s comfortable. A blanket that covers us when we get home from our internships. A TV to watch the football games we want, with popcorn, while resting our heads on each other. Wine bottles, used preferably during intercourse, which sadly end up being used, most of the times, to drown our tears and screams when the other one is not home yet but we don’t want to sound desperate or needy, so we quietly take the medicine and drink it, from the biggest cup, bottoms up, bottoms up, bottoms up… They teach us so many things, and yet they never teach us what needs to be taught. They are scared. They don’t know any other way. They want the best for us, but maybe what they know is not enough. Maybe there are so many other things that haven’t been said, and we could never know, I mean, how could we?… But we do know. I know. I know. I know. I know that it’s easier to go after another one, because the footsteps are clearly there, the dust hasn’t even had time to settle. But at one point, I happened to look away for a second, to look 30 degrees outside the border, and I want to go there. I’ve been wanting to go there. I think I know what I have to do. I believe in soulmates, and I also believe that if you are destined to meet yours, you will. I believe that for now I only have myself, and that’s ok. I think that being warm is something we are all searching for, but maybe that’s not for me, not now, not yet. I think that I cannot rest my head on anyone’s shoulder because I’m too short and I cannot reach theirs, I need to grow, I still need to grow. I’m a late bloomer, I guess, but I trust spring. I think I need to know what I want to do, where I want to be. I want to give hope to others. I want to remind them to look up at the sky, to try to count the shades it holds at 7 o’clock when they wake up and yawn. I want to let them know that they have warm hearts, and that it’s not compulsory to have someone else to warm their bed. They can have their own arms to hold at night, their own breath to watch over, their own skin to caress. I want to shout at them not to forget the childhood memories they were holding on to so dearly, not to forget the yellow chair from their grandmother’s house, the name of their first dog, the ripped blouse grandpa used to wear when he was going to feed the animals. I want to make them remember sounds, people, colours, moments, to pick up the phone and say hi to an old friend to whom they haven’t talked in months, not because they had a fight, but simply because each of them was busy living their own life. I want to remind them that they are good people, and all the good people make mistakes, all the good people feel low and scared and lost and unworthy. But they are the best people. The kind ones. The loving ones. The givers. The dreames. The fools. I want to tell them that love comes in countless forms and shapes and it is not defined nor limited, it’s not understood as having one certain person with whom we share our bed and our days with. I want to remind them to stand up for themselves and also to apologize when they know they are at fault. I think I need to shout and I think my voice is cracked but hopefully my words will be carried over the Big Sea. I think I know what I have to do. I have to use words and shape up the version of myself that I wish I were. Stronger, bolder. More courageous. I think I know how to do it. I’m chopping off parts of my ears and putting them at the core, so I can listen to everyone at once, parts of my lips and putting them in the middle, so I can reply faster, parts of my eyes and putting them at the edges, so I can see all the pain and take it on my shoulders, carry it so that they can rest.

Skin on skin, I breathe upon myself and I am living under my eyes.

I think I’m flying with the seagulls tonight, to spread words like droplets of rain.

I think I am not afraid of heights anymore.

I think I am disintegrated into the horizon, my face turned blue and my feet grew long feathers. I think I am exactly where I should be: somewhere along the way.

Blue


a hand painting,

blue paint,

a blue hand painting.

was the hand mine? I think it was.

a blue hand painting everything,

and everything was blue that day,

blue as the sun.

the sun was the bluest.

a hand painting with every other shade of blue, all except for one,

the blue with a tint of sun.

the blue from west of the river.

everything was blue that day,

we were too, don’t you remember?

we didn’t even feel the cold air entering our bodies.

 

The sea waited at our feet.

I took your hand but as soon as I started walking,

My brain cells froze and became 3rd cousins in the family of the arctic shade.

My aunt used to mention that name

Before it go so cold.

Before she got so old.

The arctic turned to indigo, right as I was dancing in vertigo.

I still think of that day sometimes

When I’m in class and I close my eyes

When I’m on the bus listening to stories I was never part of

When I meet people and their names remind me of the sound your feet made

While touching the ground, the sand, the salt of the sea;

I have so many words on me and I think I am losing them.

(This is why my eyes are brown.

I could not handle burning them with each moment.

I chose the easy way out,

I murdered the blue, like a simple case of gunshot,

I cut it, poured some salt and put them back in.

My eyes miss the parts of the blue sun

That never showed its face to them, but sometimes they’ll borrow the sky for as long as they want.

”We make use of what we can”, they say.

”I’m never turning blue again, am I?” suddenly asked my left hand today.

I looked behind me, closed my eyes, but never confessed why.)