[Evilempire]

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?

I 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.