Кому-то МАЛО боли от Маленькой жизни, еще и стихи по ней пишет.
I barely need to breathe
for you to spread your fingers over my chest
and count my ribs
the way a child would count stars.
But of course,
you’re no longer here, are you?
читать дальшеI am one to know that life isn’t fair,
evidence carefully labeled and marked,
ready to be cross-examined at first command.
Exhibit one: the jaws of the past.
Exhibit two: the ghosting pain.
Exhibit three: the traitor of a body.
Exhibit four: you, gone.
Exhibit five: everything and everything.
In this house that we built together,
I was an empty room that your name filled up,
and living felt so much less like a sin.
Eyes closed I can almost hear you say again, Five minutes,
and I open my mouth to reply as always, Five,
only to choke and claw on barren dirt.
Every night is a funeral in which I survive,
and you die again and again.
I will not lie and say I do not miss
the press of a blade against my skin.
Because I do—
you know I do.
But every time I breathe
is a different kind of bruising,
bleeding.
If I wanted pain, I would call your name instead:
Willem,
Willem.
What’s more painful than knowing that you won’t come to me?
But I will allow myself other lies,
like this green sweater I still wrap myself with
for the memory of your arms around me,
for the ghost of your touch.
And I want you to see,
as much as I would hate for you to see,
that I want so much to be haunted.
I pretend you will come back,
and I write to you the way we always did—
Dear comrade;
Dear comrade—
messages turning into birds that always know their way home.
And I wait for the door to creak open,
wait for you to smile at me again,
and I’ll tell you how much I missed you.
Oh, I miss you.
Grant me this lie.
I beg you.JUDE WAITING TO TELL WILLEM A STORY by FREYA L.
@темы:
расскажи мне о своей катастрофе,
перепосты перепостов
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