Hier mรถchte ich Gedichte teilen, manche sind neuer, andere รคlter und die meisten auf Englisch aber alle von mir
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I write a lot about fairies and unicorns because I do feel like a child most of the time.
Small imperfect things will always float above our heads, too high to reach. If it takes a giant then let us become one.
all this fragility is just barely kept in. when the skin is too tender, too thin, some light slips out
be gentle, all things that hold me must be soft. Your arms understand what I’ve built. the things I’ve broken. the limbs I’ve pulled. the freckles on my arms, you can understand. there are so many things I can give. palms to palms, skin to skin. warmth. I don’t have much, but what I do have, I have all of it.
hold my hand. drag me home. tuck me in, blanket over my torso, ice pack on my forehead. give me a metal bowl. turn on the music. only you can care for dead things. I know this.
first comes the summer but not a bit scared not the slightest trace of fragility in its steps. the heat scorching. the silk wrapped around your heart. when it breaks, you feel like collapsing into their arms but you hold back. you sit curled into yourself and first comes the remorseful affection, first comes the longing, first comes the numbness that inevitably comes with being seen.
second comes the shame, loud and brutal. when they check on you in the morning, you will fall apart. everything you kept will be leaking out. it’s embarrassing and your head is spinning and it’s warm in your stomach in a way that feels like something is eating you inside out and second comes the hiding, second comes the fear and all of the fragility that the summer did not dare to carry.
third comes the heat again, still heavy and still thick. it comes back stronger this time and everything is out in the open. you’re eating cucumber and ice cubes. but third comes the choice, third comes the hope, the kisses of a future. it’s all in you already. practice patience.
Out of forest mist, deers emerge like young poems.
Grass listen quietly.
On the edge of sight, old clouds prepare their coming.
A leaf turns upward.
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things i felt at 8 years old and never stopped feeling
from the bottom of the food chain i look up to the sky shaky hands find their way together magnetically forming into a prayer. i press my knees to the floor something leaves my mouth and its biblical in the way it exits, it hangs in the air and its heavy
i fear my father and god for different reasons
for my fear of god comes from the idea he is good and i am not for him to know there is something broken inside of me – that it will harm others and myself that i am the rot inside wood – sneaking through cracks and nesting in the inbetween for what will his judgment be? will he know i am only a child?
my fear of my father comes from the idea that i am bad but he is worse and for him to pass on whatever is wrong with him to me – inheritance of misery for him to plant manufactured fear into my walls and my head – because i know what his judgment will be.
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you tell me peace is living off the land, fingers buried in warm sand, berries picked and held in your hands,
you tell me peace is salvation; quiet contemplation as you watch the rumbling of change.
you tell me it’s being in love, finding solitude; being flesh, being man.
peace is the apple and its crunch;
peace is a determined lunch.
you tell me so much about this peace you seem to know dearly,
how it flutters in the wind and pitters in your heart;
quirks your mouth in a smile when it proves sweet and not tart.
peace is your poetry, the bitterness of blood-orange juice.
peace is a new book to read,
peace is the bird’s tweet.
peace is all the softness you have seen.
peace layers in the stitches of your dreams. you want to tell me so much about your peace, so much about your life of being free. so much of uniqueness, so little of iniquity.
your peace lies on the ground of battlefields, promised by propaganda and vitriol towards supposed enemies. your peace is lackluster and forged by thorns that tear into anyone who brushes near it, because it grew from the idea that some deserve and some do not. you should be heard, but others‘ words should be scorned. you, who have not seen what truly is „war“ you listen dogmatically to everything this „everything“ to which you’re sworn is worth its weight in gold, because it’s from suffering, and ignoring its sorrows, that your peace and wealth is born
// i fall asleep / often with affection stuck between my teeth / in the gaps that toothpicks can’t reach / in the tight spaces that sometimes popcorn hides in / and i taste it in my mouth / constantly / it’s always threatening to crawl into conversation / „today i thought of you / and remembered that you are so very kindโ // there are so many chances / but it’s not quite time yet / i’m constantly tying my life to yours in some way / not really quite directly connected / but at the least / a little entangled //
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i’ll be in the kitchen at 2:40pm bathed in the fluorescent lights of my fridge trying to spell extravagant words while my fingertips wear away.
i’ll be on the train at 3pm drowning in chatter and sunny days; i’m sure youre not as bad as you seem, but my throat closes up when you laugh. you believe that everyone is good, and i feel like i prove you wrong by trying to find a way to be mad at you for it.
a semblance of nothing, a brand new, untouched whiteboard, yellow striped wallpaper and a beige dotted carpet, empty pictures frames
words, words, words, reusing them, good, bad, spectacular! soul shattering! recycle, reduce, slowly and surely, why does life move so fast even when it’s killing me slowly? salt in the wound, blood in the bath, tear-free shampoo in my eyes
i miss feeling worthy of good things.
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bodies trolling around in the grass of all city parks.
our lungs fight the air more than they should and i’m picking strawberries off of fruit tarts, trying to remember what being delicate and special feels like.
in the wispy bunny tail grass, i held the stars for us between my palms, like picking up a moth from the grass. yes we pick beautiful things from where they belong.
i wish to see you content; feet on the dashboard, light at your fingertips. i wish to steep myself in love, to become sweet at the core. i wish that i could count every second that passes and stack them on my bookshelf. these are stupid, stubborn urges, born from the itch between my ribs
you make my heart quiet and small, and suddenly, my chest is not fighting. the world is still turning and my body is still enough to sleep in
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today, the drain pulls me into it as i try to pull washed-out pieces of myself out of it. it’s all just picking up pieces of the pipe system’s backwash, ain’t it? the socket is filled with hair and I am trying really hard to detangle it when i’m done there, i’m sure i’ll head back to bed. then, Iโll feel sick to my stomach, and try to sleep, Ill spit it all out on white sheets.
who am i if i am not rotting on display? who am i if not sadness with a nightgown on? although, maybe i’ll try to feel again tomorrow, or a day after that maybe once i’ve gotten three years worth of rest, the sun will rise. i think i just need to lose myself completely once to dig out old veins, pull at them and pull and pull and pull. then exchange the veins in my wrists with something new, a hosepipe maybe and then ill have managed to make myself something new, something wooden and without fear.
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photosynthesize the sounds spilled around me; gentle humming from ten lights down the street, voices slipping through barely cracked windows. Its summer and people are airing out the anger that ruins their breathing. ruins their kissing. ruins their holding. ruins their eating. the kitchen table is watermarked.
there is life to be had & still, my hands are empty. yarn spooled around my wrists, draped around my waist. all this fragility is just barely kept in. when the skin is too tender, some light slips out.
a mile away from the road, I can still hear tires screeching against the concrete. one day, tipsy, will I die the same? life-shaped. my hand. drag me home. tuck me in, blanket over my torso, ice pack on my forehead. give me a metal bowl. turn on the tv. only you can care for dead things. I know this. in the morning, though, under your hands, I will live. the warmth, the skin, the mumbling, the whispers, the breathing, the holding. I want it to be you. here I am! here I am! love, love, love! here I am to soak it up!
time is a woman in a cashmere sweater
her neck is overflowing from pearls and they are dandeling from her ears.
she is on a carousel, timeless, and we are riding a wooden horse together:
today is a day for living, for remembrance, today is a new vivid memory that we face. today is another, dressed in velvet and gold and –
pearls, pearls, pearls.
tomorrow will be a day, dressed in cotton and soft linen button up shirts.
this ode is a silent one like the doormat in the rain or a midday nap that swirls the past week’s thoughts togetherโ so if your girlfriend asked hypothetically if you’d give up language for money you say no, but remember all the things you’ve already left unspoken (so, yes, maybe) so you promise yourself. with them, everything will be said out loud.
asked you, your head half against my arm and half against my pillow, if you had ever fallen in love before. many times, you had said, but mostly, you think, you had just stumbled into it. at the time, i had laughed at your phrasing but oh how chaotic, how hurtful it must be for you. how you must have skinned your knees on the way. you hit me gently, my laughter still ringing in the air, and i held onto the tips of your fingers for a second longer when you left my house that night.
the anthills re-emerged in the places they shouldn’t have been, by the curb leading up to my driveway, and often, we’d walk by them on the way back home and try to imagine a small, busy life. i’d watch the way you squinted slightly at the ground, the way you’d step carefully and tediously until we reached the front door, and from there you’d meet my eyes and i wouldn’t look away. we’d falter in front of the steps for a moment, the door with sky blue chipped paint just a few feet away, and then we’d keep going.
soon enough, the sprinklers are out in the front lawn again and the ants have drowned by now. the grass is greener. we have coconuts that my dad cracked open with a hammer and we’re spooning the meat out of it. you say it was the first time you’d eaten that day, so i give you my second half, concern in the lilt of my voice. soon enough, i walk you to the busstop. your headlights disappear behind my neighbor’s house
the door isn’t blue anymore. there’s just white wood underneath and the house looks quite empty, but the wreath that you bought me for christmas helps liven it up. i fumble for my keys while you wait beside me, your hands curled around your mouth as you breathe into your gloves. take my keys out and hold them with one hand, hold you with the other. you end up on the couch, and i end up plunging into you. i trip over my words and clumsily tousle your hair.
have you ever fallen in love? i askโฆ
Wunschkind 