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.

liquid brain

today there was a lot of sun

between the leaves

on the pavements

in my eyes

it was almost easy

to forget about

everything that is

so dark

and hides

between my ears

I’ve tried to imagine

all of that

leaving my head

together with

yet another nosebleed

it would probably also

have to take

my brain

but that’d be

alright 

I suppose

pocket dial

he pocket dials me

from his date

my name does start

with the letter A

so maybe in a way

it's not only the phone's fault

but also alphabet's

it takes me a moment

to realize

what just happened

I listen to his voice

that sounds different

round

and plastic

(I can also hear her

but I try

to leave her faceless)

I hang up

for few minutes

I don't move

close my eyes

and think that probably

all of that is a bit funny

I might be also

remembering that time

when we spoke

and I've told him

that I can't do this

anymore

I send him a message

that he called me

just a moment ago

by then

I only hope

there will be

some truth in his reply

what I get is

"oops sorry"

all very true

I guess

Samson

I've cut my hair

a while ago

but I didn't make you 

choose

perhaps that was

my mistake

or maybe simply

you didn't understand

you've cut your hair

a week ago

such a loud and final

full stop

the visible sign

of cutting me

just under my knees

so I can fall

and if no-one listens

- and no-one does - 

there will be no sound

in respect to my mouth

it will stay silent

just the same

maybe some day

they will tell

beautiful stories

about all of that

and later on

immortalise it

in amber

(that's a nice thought)

or maybe - 

- maybe they won't

SSRI

all my friends

tell me

that I have less

of sharp edges

since I take

the pills

it's different from

the inside

where I need

to put on post-its

that shower

should be done

at least every other day

and that pyjamas

aren't acceptable

in the public places

but apparently

I have less

of sharp edges

and most of the time

I lack the energy

to even think

about

the suicide.

I guess

that's a win.

fish

my lips moved several times

during that night

trying to form the shape

of the words I needed

but the sound

didn't arrive

so I was just standing there

more like a fish

mute

suffocating

with the oxygen

and with the cold hands

you held these hands

later on

trying to warm them up

and pretending

not to see

that something broke in me

and now

my Inside

is slowly leaking out

onto the pillow

my lips moved

for the last time

- a sound appeared

a short and a very quiet

howl of the animal
that hurts

you can live with that

there is this white fog around me

and it makes everything

so unreal

and so distant

I guess I don't care

anymore

even if I am sad

and I can't really tell

because I am so far away

from myself

but -

- even if I am sad

it doesn't really matter

anymore

simply because

nothing really matters

anymore

something hurts a bit

in my chest

but it is also

not very important

a lazy thought appears

that it's probably

my broken heart

- it's OK

you can live with that

wubbalubbadubdub

1. my head is fragile

and I don't want you

to cut yourself

when it falls apart

2. I'm not in love

with you

not because I can't

but because I know

then I'd have to leave

(I'm not ready yet)

3. when you have bad dreams

I kiss you and stroke your hair

it seems to work

in the morning you

never remember

any of that

4. at the night time

I sometimes get scared

and start to fall

if you are next to me

you whisper to my ear

that it's OK

5. you are not in love

with me

because I am full of

red flags and lines

not to be crossed

- but you hold my hand

when I fall asleep

(that's a lot)

6. we are bad in waking up

and leaving the bed

there are still

few months

ahead of us

7. I like your eyes

they are green

most of my favourite things

in life

have green eyes.

otters (I have cut my hair)

when I said

I am going to cut

my hair

I tried to tell you

something

but maybe

I was too vague

now it's too late

and with my head

so much lighter

my heart got

so much more heavy

and there are

no more words

I can now

comb my hair

for the very first time

in months

and I feel bad about it

I stay up all night

because sleep felt

so much better

with my hand in yours

violence

the shadows under my eyes

have violent colour

in the not entirely clear way

- they suit me

the brown and blue circles

are what makes

my face mine

- same way the old scars

make my hands mine

or faded tattoos

that cover one of my legs

make this leg also mine

...

I know

that there is also violence

and plenty of violets

in the way my fingers move

when anxiety starts to

fill my body

or in the pulse of my heart

fast and always in a

sort of panic

- there is no reason for it

...

my dreams are always short

happening already after

the end of the world

I breathe easily over there

and for a moment

even my elbows

don't have sharp edges

and feel like

made out of a foam

dawn

it's already bright outside

and I really try not to think

about all of the reasons

why we should call it off

instead I try to think about:

elephants and how they never

stop growing

parallel evolution of

homo sapiens sapiens and 

homo neanderthalensis

how to fix my bed

so it doesn't scream

in its wooden voice

when we have sex

when it doesn't quite work

I try to think

about something ugly

about you...

but the only ugly thing

I've managed to find

is the fact that you

like me

sky turns

into something

soft and white

I switch off my phone

in the one

final attempt.

morning

chlorophyll

I watch it through my fingers

dazed and unfocused

so much like me

sun strokes my nose

and that's the most intimate

thing

that happened to me

in months

fingers of my left hand

move a bit

that's me

- stroking the sun back

I stand still

and consider becoming

an euglena

...

heart

now you

touch it

press on the

softer part

lick it

step on it

bite it

let's see

if we can

break it

...

my friend and I talk about love while playing basketball in the dark

we forgot how to love

at least

it seems that way

of course

it may be

that all of the past

horrible things

that happened

to each of us

just taught us

to be cautious

(to be scared)

to demand more

(to be scared)

to be not so

god-damn trusting

(to be scared)

...

three points for me

at least that's what

you say

I can't see

very well

we both

have a sip of the beer

your ball

...

or maybe

people actually got

so bloody boring

and not very

interesting

and if so

that could mean

it happened also

to us

(we are the people

after all)

...

you score

and we drink

a little bit more

...

so nothing happened

in a while

few meaningless

affairs maybe

definitely

nothing more

definitely

not love

(at best

a like button)

and we forgot

and un-learnt

and devolved

(deloved?)

...

ball goes somewhere

to our left

to disappear

in the night

we finish

our beers

and follow it

(we are

disappeared)