Monday, 28 December 2015



            I.  Some people sleep at night.
But not lovers. And not when they are alone. They will lie awake, hands tucked on their chests, trying to silence their ghosts. Eyelids fluttering in the coldness of the room. They will lie awake , eyes wandering towards the night sky, where stars collide, where light commits suicide.

II. So maybe it’s a good thing.
That city’s so vast you can break my heart and get away with it. Never have to look at me again. Never have to reopen a constellation of scars.

III. You buried me in you and I became a mirror. 
It will be like it happened to someone else. Then, it will be like we never even existed. But you knew that, didn’t you ?

IV. We’ll never get to be ourselves again. We’ll crave change as long as there are people to change after. Inside us, we’ll be sewn up with different skies. We’ll try to explain our bruises. We’ll invent monsters under the bed for other people to stay beside us at night. We’ll learn to lie awake again.

Tuesday, 22 December 2015

brutal hearts

there are two versions of this story.

 in one version, i survived the fire and walked away. in the other version, i brought its memory with me. this is why i still hold you tight in some nights, fingertips still lingering on my skin. cradled in my heart like something sacred. i haven’t been held for a long time.

 at one moment, when i looked in the mirror, i only saw scars and you. now, getting ahold of you is like watching someone else’s life.

 i wanted to be able to see the wounds without reopening them. i wanted to be grateful. for you, being my anchor when i couldn’t stand in the storm. keeping my head over the water, watching my bruises get pale. you were the one who stitched my bones. you were the one who sew grief on my lips. i wanted to forget your name turning to glass in my mouth. i wanted to stop my hands from shaking.
 the first version would’ve been a good epilogue. but you desired to be brutal. your salt was scattered in my wounds. so when i looked at them, the whole world turned empty. colorless. you liked love sharpening its knife. i like keeping my ghosts silent.

Saturday, 12 December 2015

aripi cusute

 este o pasăre tremurând în spatele coastelor mele. e prea mică pentru lumea asta. i-am cusut aripile, iar trupul îi este impregnat de cenuşă. câteodată o simt cum se zbate printre nervi şi artere, încercând să scape, încercând în zadar să-şi întindă aripile. prin cicatricile ei izvorăşte lumina, dar războiul emană din penele ei. oricât de departe fug, nu reuşesc să mă îndepărtez de ea. mi se agaţă de gânduri în nopţile nedormite. îmi ciuguleşte bucăţi din inimă. rămăşiţele mi se izbesc de stern în ecouri.

 alte dăţi amuţeşte, ca şi cuprinsă de o stranie răceală. o păstrez înăuntru, în siguranţă. noaptea o aud cântându-şi disperarea. se teme să nu-i uit din nou numele. e singuratică. vreau să o ajut. uneori vorbesc cu vocea ei. îi descos aripile, chiar dacă se taie în marginile mele ascuţite. îi port fragilitatea pe buze. îmi închid ochii şi izbutesc din nou să fiu ea. inima mea îşi regăseşte rădăcinile. suntem amândouă un singur poem, însă niciodată în acelaşi timp.

Friday, 4 December 2015


 On my way back home, I sat across a stranger.

 Out of the blue, he told me what he missed most : the songs of the birds, revealing in the pale morning. I told him I longed for the night sky, deep and endless, with constellations drifting in darkness – the sky you never see in a crowded city. Here, there is just an abyss that fits the one inside me.

 And then I thought about the other things I missed. The comfort of knowing who you are, of having something to believe in. I realised that I have many thing to run away from, but nothing to run to. I am restless, as I am always walking into a deep fog. I wake up too many times at night without knowing where I am. I am searching my body for the scars that define me. My wounds ache from the countless times I tore my stitches apart. I am a funeral home, bruises on my lips, no language to describe them.

 I have short moments of recognition. My heart leaps. My hands fade in and out of existance. Reality fades in and out of existance. My voice suddenly cracks. And I’m coming undone. Boneless. Hollow. I’m lost in the fog again and there’s no way out, no way out except to face the ghosts that I hide under the bed before I fall asleep.