song

 you play with my fingers

and they start to tell

the melody

that only you can hear

my breathe is a tambourine

and for once

it is

the right rhythm

I can't sing 

so instead 

I smile at you

you whisper

the words

into my ear

and I smile

yet again

when the chorus

starts

dancing in the sun

 I'm watching
sun stains on the ceiling
through my fingers:
they tremble and vibrate
they dance 
and change their shapes

when I finally get up
I tremble and vibrate
too
maybe from far away
you could mistake it
for a dance

my contours
can no longer hold
my own shape
they break
and fall to the ground
as in a slow motion
as if they were feathers

sun sets
and the shadow
swallows my room
and covers
my sadness
and my shame

when I walk to the door
I sway
and move 
to the music
I can't hear
I look at my feet
and I can almost
convince myself
that I'm dancing

blue

his favourite colour

is blue

like the sea

like water

my eyes

look like water

in the past years

they got diluted

even more

they are still

like water

but not exactly

still blue

he says

he likes my eyes

his favourite colour

must be water

WWBD

my friend recently

sent me Bukowski's poem

with a note how it

reminds her of me

but I guess it's more difficult

to be a girl

that doesn't need to be defined

by the man

than a (talented) drunk

I do not have a man or a girl

that I could tell:

hey, I do not need to

be drunk or high

to write

(I don't)

nevertheless

my last relationship

happened years ago

and these days

I am just easy

(if I were a man

I'd be a stud)

and apparently

way too difficult

to be

someone's

golden girl

(but sure:

I can keep the drunk part)

tippex

I sometimes paint my fingernails

it's always black and white

and my nails never resemble

anything else than the fingernails

of someone who bites their fingers

to the bone

I do it even though

my sister always laughs

that it looks like nails coloured

with a sharpie and tippex

(they are not - 

- but they do look like this)

I do it even though

I can't really do it properly

I do it to prove myself

I am in charge

I do it to show the world

I don't care

one time

when I've felt extremely healthy

and brave

I've painted them red

Máthēma Of Depression (WiP)

NUMBER THEORY

prime numbers

can be divided

only by themselves

and one

it always seemed

like a good

starting point

2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13… 

I always liked

the idea of 2

being the only

prime that was even

but there was

never anything even

about me

and always

plenty of odd

{ 2k+1:k ∈ Z }

LOGIC

they used to

teach us

that there are 

only two values:

and that things can be

either true

or false

(and there is nothing

in between)

x = 1 ⊕ x = 0

it never felt

like a good time

to start telling

the truth

so I just started

to stay silent

more and more

x = 0

MATHEMATICAL ANALYSIS

my mind got broken

so many times

pieces went

missing

and I knew

it will never be

whole again

x = [0,1)

SET THEORY

sometimes 

I’ve been

too little:

too little of

a golden middle

or too little

to be

someone else’s

future

(soon I’ve became

too little

to be a

future

for myself)

x ∈ Ø

LOGIC 2

alternatively

I could’ve been

too much:

it was like a

swear word

- by that time

I’ve already been

too much sad

for far too much time

so surely

too much can’t be

anything good

thus - surely -

I can’t be

any good

QED

hay fever (507 days of spring)

It’s almost as if summer's exploded two days ago and covered grass with some make-shift flowers - flowers that won’t survive even for a week. I have a hay-fever and can’t really see on my left eye. Tears – meaningless but very salty – are dripping from my chin. I don’t have any tissues so I am trying to ignore them.

I start to count. It’s neither my heartbeat nor the passing seconds. Numbers appear and fade away on my inner eyelid. Three hundred. Shadow that more or less resembles a human being appears in front of me. “You are late”, I say so quietly that even I don’t know if I have managed to make any sound. Three hundred and one. In that exact moment all of the whys and whens actually escape me and it is necessary that I keep on counting - that’s the bright red thread that won’t let us get lost. You might be saying something but all that reaches me are muffled sounds in the background; I try to smile whilst navigating between the numbers. Three hundred thirty three. I think to myself that you are a little bit like this pollen in the air that surrounds me: you bring so many colours to the things around me and I can nearly see them, I can nearly smell them - I am sure I would - if only I wouldn’t cry all of the time. It’s not that I haven’t tried, for a while I’ve even taken pills for that and thought that maybe, just maybe, they could stop my tears. Three hundred fifty eight. It didn’t go as planned. I have to take a deep breath to fill in the spaces after all of the words I don’t want to think out-loud. I nearly lose my count. Three hundred ninety eight. By now, I can hear it in your voice, you are getting annoyed with my silence and you talk even more; you talk even louder. Four hundred twenty eight. I’d reply but I can’t stop counting: I need to count for us - our red thread entangled between the trees; red thread that can show us the way out from this wooden maze. Four hundred sixty six. Even my own thoughts have become blurred now. We stand opposite each other as if preparing for a duel and it’s only our shadows that hold each other’s hands. Four hundred ninety nine. I start to rush through the numbers and by now my right eye is also crying. Five hundred and five. We kiss good-bye. Five hundred and seven.