Writers Jam

“Water with blood in it running over the sand.
He pretends not to see. I pretend not to die.”
— Daniela Crăsnaru, Writing Lesson

what is home if not the place i run away from?
throat closed up, a brick for a chest,
there’s not many feelings elsewhere,
neither there is an escape.

what is home if not the place i can’t rely on?
they cut my muchness into pieces easy to digest,
throw up once they’ve had a taste,
form an allergy whose only epipen is my absence,
take cautious, preventive steps for a very likely disease.

what is home if not the source for sad poetry?
criticize everything that i’ve ever loved,
deny the beauty i see in them, deny me.

to protect myself, i must become scarce and hidden.
you cannot ruin what you cannot see.
i shall exist behind the curtains, your eyes—
a lens that scrutinize my littlest of steps.
but none of it is ever enough,
i’m never enough.

each of my steps that weighed like an elephant in my life
looks like the size of an ant in your head.

i’ve tied my hands—for you,
so you wouldn’t feel guilty for denying me
and you get to deny anyway.

—

listening: liability
https://open.spotify.com/track/6Kkt27YmFyIFrcX3QXFi2o?si=3a5c89304e8140be