*

I feel 

like I'm running out of words.

Like I'm running

on borrowed time.

It kinda hurts
but it's also kind of expected
that you're not going
to pick up the phone and call,
you will just be gone
at some point.

*

Can't find it within me
to even lie anymore.
Just fighting my way throught this
biting
biting my way to the core.

I've found a liking
for the taste of my blood
the thumping of my heart
I've found
it's good to be me.

*

  I have made a promise to myself that I will write more. Be it here, be it elsewhere, with this name or another, I have resolved to write more. When I'm not writing I feel as if I lose sense of my self little by little. Like everything become's unreal and too distant, I feel even more of a spectator thaan I usually do, too much of an outsider in my own life.

  It's not exactly that writing helps me make more sense of things. It's just that I can always go back and pick up the train of though I had then,  a train of thought that is no longer, maybe I can understand who I used to be better, see where did things change, where I chose to turn a blind eye or where I was an obnoxious asshole (I would argue that I was, and am, often). It's also evidence in a way, memory is always distorted, and while what you write down is never the pure truth, it's part of it and that is the closest thing I can have to proof that those moments existed and they were not a daydream or a nightmare, or an idea when I drunk or high. I still catch myself wondering whether childhood memories are true or not. After all, repeat a story enough time to yourself and it will replace the actual event.

  Just in the same way that photographs replace our memory.

Parenthesis

Parenthesis.

I've always wanted to avoid that.

It's what I wanted to avoid

with you.

And just as I predicted

we fell in a loop

of unfinished bussiness

much too soon

much too easily

much too unnecessary.

It's like a conversation unfinished

I can only thank you

for putting 

a stop

to that.

It's much too sad to think about

too much of a pity

to have no room for conversation

with someone who electrified you.

I'm going to break my promise. 

Make sure that full stop stands.

Tear

The song goes
a bit like this:
love will tear us apart
but
baby
all the poets got it wrong.
Pride will.

*

"I will find you"
he said.
The words rung familiar,
 they tagged at a memory
of another life
another me.
"After February,
I'll come see you."
A promise told
by one that loved me,
one that didn't.
Neither found me in the end.

Prelude to the storm

It's been too quiet
for too long
I'm getting too restless
my breath catches in my throat,
it's like waiting for an invisble blow
to land.

If I break my own ribs
will I get out?
If I break someone's heart
will I breathe now?

I shut down the blinds,
I shut out everything except my mind.

I am ready for the storm
I've been expecting it since the long calm arrived.
I need it
to get my blood pumping again.

*

I had
this horrible dream.
Where you came to find me
after years
and
the sight of you
was still excrutiating
and excrutiantingly
beautiful.

For a moment
I woke
and it was still real.

*

Of course
I felt the prickling,
recognised it for what it was.
Jealousy pooled in my stomach
at the sight of him
kissing the neck of his old lover.
Their giggling and shared intimacy
left me envious.

I still wonder
how do I not regret
letting him go.

I believe
old loves go to hell.
If you're lucky enough.

Suicidal thoughts

The other night
we sat at the bus stop
discussing
all the ways we had thought of
killing ourselves,
how stubborn I am about living
how often you think of
killing yourself.
It scared me
just how real
it was.

Sleep it off

I wonder what it says about a person
When they still ache for not touching another
A particular other
That they have chosen to cut off.


I've never regretted
My decision
Yet
It hurts
More than i thought.


I am not delusional enough
Not to see that.

However
I know I'll sleep this ache too off.

Bring it on

Sometimes I wish
there was not so much clarity.

I wonder if
it'd be easier
to go through life
in a mode of stupidity,
in a self-sufficient,
self-imposed, willful ignorance.

And then I think
how fucking boring.

Better see the wreckage
and choose the imperfection that suits you,
not let domr imperfection pick you.

Bright lights are always blinding
but I have faith
in my ability to figure out
the way to cure
the future burns.

Bring it the fuck on.

My scars will be the medals
that prove I lived.

*

It'd be a lie to say
that I am counting the days
because I am not.
I'm not crying
as I thought I would.
I knew I'd have to go back.
It feels just as bad
as I thought it would.
Talk to me,
one glance,
I'm waiting
for something that won't come.
I'm not waiting
for time to run out,
it already has.
I've half forgotten why
it is so important in the first place
but it feels important nonetheless.

*

It is
strange to admit out loud
but
the knowledge that
I will leave this place
and not have seen you again
is throbbing
at the back of my mind.
It is
such a trivial thing
yet
I was sure you'd forget.

You don't get it.
I need to make sure
it's perfectly clear
how non-insignificant he was.
I need to make it clear
because memory fades
and everything in the past
become uncertain
tangled
a hazy dream you can not recover.

I'm terrified I'll forget.

He was the person
who made me feel loved with a touch.
He could be violent if he wanted,
I knew,
but he never lifted a finger on me
never so much as raised his voice to me.

He was quick-tempered,
I knew,
but never with me.
He was a safe-place,
the silence when even the white noise
died down.

He was in love with me,
I knew,
the way I know
I'd trust him with myself completely.

He'd come undone
he would unravel for me
and I loved him all the more
for choosing to do that with me.
He hated when I cried
said he felt like he did that to me.

Oh,
I was not in love with him
but I loved him
I do love him.

It's why I let him go.
I know myself enough
to know when I become too restless
to know when I'm about to become too selfish
too hurtful.

"Oh," I said
"I left you some lipstick marks."
"Those are the least of the marks
you'll leave me with."

"Know,
that for me,
you will always be the sweetest girl there is."

Here and there

  "I know it's not much, but it's something," I mutter and turn around and leave. I'm sort of floatting, sort of thrusting around, sort of carried by the current. I have no direction, my eye is caught by reflections and little shines and shadows and everything that temporarely flutters and then dies. The world around me is hurrying around and I remain immobile, dizzy and indiferent.
  I am working for myself by myself. That's the thought I keep repeating to myself over and over. If I say enough times I will believe it. I have nothing new to say, nothing that can be called earth-shattering, so I remain silent. I let the hubbub of everyone around me make up for my lack of words, it's a pleasant distraction even if it sometimes ends up drowning me.
  The good-old dull aches are always there of course, always scraching the same old wound but I am so accustomed to them by now I don't even notice when they are around. You get used to going around with a crippled heart, a crippled mind. You get to appreciate the tears and the smiles all the more when they come. I appreciate everything that sets me on fire, the euphoria and the pain. Everything else is a past-time or a chore.
  I miss him of course and I'm thinking of someone else of course, and that goes for everyone that occupies a space in my mind of course. But there is nothing new to be said, I made choices I have not regretted but the outcome does not make me happy. I'm not sure in some situations there is an outcome that can make one happy.
  I have thought about it of course.The doubt is sometimes there. I found one person in my life that respected me and loved me. Was in love with me. Many people never even find it once and I will find it a second time? Probably not but I loved him too much to keep him just to inevitably at some point crush him.
  "You know you too can call for me in times of need, right?"
  "Yes, I do."
  "But will you?"
  Will I? Will I?
  Probably not. You know I probably won't.
  I don't like to cause problems, I don't like to disturb.
  I'll silently remain here smiling, until I'm not here anymore.

  This time leaving Greece was easier than expected, it felt a bit like a cool compress against feverish skin. I left after having cut ties and placed something in a parenthesis that feels almost outside of time, decisions to me made upon returning -  though of course that is never the case. You can ignore things and put them out of your mind, a trouble to be dealt with afterwards, but the truth is that if you don't make an active choice the choice will be made for you and you will let it be that way. 

  We cut off from each other with him saying he loved me and to be careful, I'm more innocent than I think. I cried for him but I had known all along the inevitability of this and the remembrance of the other guy's hands was always at the back of mind.

  Back in Rome I feel as if this never really happened, none of it was real, I get to leave in the quiet of anonymity for a while more -I'll miss it when I'm gone.

*

  He pinned my hands above my head and came to me like a hurricane, I had realised the calm before the storm but thought I had misinterpreted it for a moment. Since then I keep reliving those moments in my head, it is almost frustrating, I feel like I'm somehow altering them in this way. He knew how to move and how to touch in the way that truly excites me.

  I am amazed at the fact that I slept so soundly by his side afterwards, I can never sleep at the sides of men whom I have had sex with and how easily things flowed. 

  We have not talked since then and his constant question between kisses repeats itself in my ears. 

  "Why did you open the door?"

Coming in order to leave

I think you know it already
I'm about to break your heart
if indeed you have handed it to me.
I guess it is better to crack it
rather than
keep it
and smother it
into
dust.

I need to leave you
because I love you
(just not the way you want).

P

A song is playing.
The kind that makes me wish
I were in love.
That nagging thought tells me
I'm not in love with you
after all.

I'm going to have
to let you go.
I'm going to cry over this.

Most people's opinion of me
Is trapped
Somewhere between
Kindness and cruelty.
When it tips
In favour
Of either side,
That's when they're always
Wrong.

Surprises

The biggest surprise of all
was the absence of guilt.
No remorse
found root within me
instead
only an everpresent recognition
of things being seperate from you.
Of teeth barely grazing
my skin.

Doubts

It's all back to normal I suppose. He sends increasingly sweet messages and tells me he misses me. Sometimes I reply back those three words. Others I don't. Some figures have emerged and re-emerged these past two weeks, on their own or by my digging them out. And there is this recurring desire to hurt him and to keep myself from doing that. But the truth is that two weeks of angry silence have shuttered my fragile trust in him - and I have resisted trusting him from the beginning and he has trusted me and he's been unraveling since before Christmas and suddenly this thing is a freefall. Only I think I'm the supposed parachute and joke's on us because I've got holes along my hands and heart and mind. And for all he says he loves me, he still did not communicate for two weeks over something stupid and I had to reach out twice, against my pride, my ego and my sense of what is right. The first time I was scorched and the second we were both past being tipsy and too tired of the silence to argue, so the morning after we swept the whole thing under the rug, neither apologising for something neither believed we had to apologise. Except the thing is, how can I keep this, whatever it is, if the slightest of trouble summons from him self-righteous silence? For what will happen when the real trouble hits, when the difficult part of me is exposed to him, when I can not be full of sunshine and quiet understanding? I can not but expect him to bail. I can not blame him for it either, sometimes I want to bail myself too.

Unbeknowst to him, her words echo still in my head, words he has no idea I've ever heard, words she does not know better than to direct to me. Sometimes knowledge can hurt the most. (I am too much of a masochist to relinquish the idea of it though.)

I give him strength he says, but my mind is a closed book to him and it's a matter of time before that drains us both.

Another glass of wine will do I suppose. I should have one in one of Rome's buried bars soon. Too broke for that, but sometimes we have to push some things to let some others rest.

*

I foresaw
all possible endings
except this.
Perhaps that is why
it hurts.

It went like this

He asked
whether I had something to say.
"I did
but fuck it."
He said alright, he'll fuck it.


I'd be a liar to say
he won't leave a hole behind him
he is not already leaving a hole
that won't be filled
that I won't fill myself if I have to.


I'd be liar to say
I am not bleeding from the effort already.

*

He said,
"Should I tie you,
you'll be in pain."
"But you will take care of me?"
"I always take care of you."

Afterwards in a whisper
almost inaudible
"I care so much about you.
Do you realise what I feel for you?"