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

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.

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

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

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)

sounds

usually sound

is the first one

to come back

(only after a few

breaths)

hum of the

car engines

noise of the

birds

your

heart-beat

I let fingers

of my

right hand

move

to that melody

the left one

forms a fist

I try to place it

somewhere

between

us

if neither

of us

will speak

for long

enough

we might

fall asleep

equation of the straight line

.

everyone knows

that through

any given
two points

you can draw

a straight line

that connects

both of them

that's why I try
to make a point

though - admittedly

it might be

not an obvious

one

or maybe

it's just us

hidden behind

a lot of words

and even more

kilometres

it snows
with fuzzy logic
changing
the landscape
into something
white
soft
and undetermined

.

may day

we interrupt

quiet hours

of the night

with messages

full of

unfinished

sentences

that may

or may not

mean

something/

/nothing

later on

with the first

sunlight

comes

sleep

that neither you nor I

can describe

we don't need

alarm clocks

I have

ambulances

on the streets

you live

around the corner

from the

fire station

with the noise

of the day

and the illumination

of the sky

everything can only

be

what it exactly

is

it may

or may not
be

why we

stay

so

silent

four three

on the roof

just before

the dawn

air smells

like ice

it's so easy

to imagine

you are just

a fly

caught in

the white foggy

amber

two

I watch

birds

come

and

go

and do

a countdown

with every finger

I lose

feeling to

one

nothing

halves

everything

feels light

and shapeless

only half here

only half real

I touch the skin

under your eye

it's white

nearly colourless

my finger

digs deep

until 

the red drop

appears

it changes

your face

into something real:

you make

a sound

- this sound is

as red

as your blood

I step back

this way

I am also

only half here

only half real

the night when we went outside to watch the skyline with cranes

that night

your eyes

were touching me

even before

your fingers did

you said

you want to

look me in the eye

to be deep inside
in

every
possible
way

we spoke about

some difficult words

unable to say out loud

those that are

so much more simple

later on

we've just 

became silent
in

every
possible
way

(morning)

OK

when I stare ahead

with the absent look

on my face

you sometimes ask

these

always meaningless

three words

are you OK

I move pawns

on the board
in my head

I test how far

can I get

if I use a bishop instead

if I do castling

am I OK

I try to predict

your next

and another and another

move

I may frown

and say out loud

checkmate

it's not OK

wrong choice

you've kept silent

about everything

that needs to stay

like that

muffled

muted

unspeakable

and fragile

(I've believed

that silence)

duel (#1)

We are looking at the same thing, I guess. At least this is how it should be (almost for sure; maybe not; definitely yes). In the attempt to change my own perspective I move my head to the left, back to the centre and then to the right. I squint and bite my lip and most of all - I try not to look you in the eye. Space and time suddenly fall apart and I know it's exactly 12 PM, noon, and that spurs at our boots are the ones that are making this very faint clang. The hat, that you haven't had on your head just a moment ago, casts shadow on your face and the saliva in my mouth becomes bitter as if I had just bit a blade of grass. We stand opposite to each other but I don't think we can see one another. Everything that there is to it is just a dust on our faces and the Sun that burns our necks and shoulders; there is a yellow sky above and a very distant rumble of the storm that is approaching. (Obviously there is also all of that what is hiding in our fingerprints and shadows under our eyes.) Arms of the tower clock haven't moved for at least ten minutes now. Without thinking much about it I straighten up and tuck my hair to the back so I can look straight at you. I can't explain why I am so surprised that you are still here and that you are looking at me (into me, through me, to me). You are smiling. It starts to rain.

super glue

I've put glue

on my fingertips

so they stop bleeding

now -

- every time I touch

my face

I leave scratches

and faint red lines

on my cheeks

as if
I'd been
using sand paper

the futile attempt
to polish
my thoughts

hand-made

I am unfinished

with only

one coat of paint

I always look

pale and unhealthy

I imagine

that hands that made me

must have been

scratched

with skin like

a sand paper

you have

a soft gaze

that I will

never have

and a clear voice
so different
from the noise
I make

when we lay
in the dark
I can only hope
you can't read
with your fingers
'made in...' label