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