words don't come that easy.

x

30.10.21
12:15

If memory deletion could occur,
I’d erase the one where
I stood outside an empty school
gate for too long. The bell still
rings in my head. The ting-tong-
ting of abandonment. Or maybe
the one where I swang around
and about — like a dreadful
ballet dance — as a belt whipped
against the soft skin. Cold water in the
back. Delete. Spit on the face.
Delete. Every text with two blue
ticks. Delete. A strange woman’s
hand on the penis. Delete.
The trauma of reading terrible
Instagram poetry. Delete. But what would
I do with yours, I wonder. Maybe it’s the
sentimentality of it all or the fact
that you can spell Dostoevsky
right. Even the most mundane
moment annoyingly glorifies
itself and demands a private metaphor.
The harshest sentences get coloured
with cheap remembrance; something
to laugh about in the middle of a
lonely metro ride. Listen, T. If we
never say it in so many words —
in so many syllables; years later
if I pop too many pills or if I am killed
in an accident by a group of teenagers
who wanted to have drunk fun;
or merely by the virtue of me
being too cowardly to admit it
anywhere else but here —
know that it’s true. All of it.
For you. And, even more so,
for me.