Tamara Stamenkovic
  • Some people are maps, others are places on them

    I believe some people are ships, other destinations. People sail through people, and many arrive at their destination only when they become ships, but nothing more than that, nothing less. I believe everyone has a map. Some people are maps, others are places on them. Me, I’m caught trying to swim over the edges of…

  • There will never be a big enough reason to give up on yourself

    There will never be a big enough reason to give up on yourself or allow anyone or anything to make you think you’re not worthy, and anyone who makes you believe that only shows that they are not worthy of you. The point is, if you believe in yourself, you will understand that you can…

  • Life after death inside myself

    I’ve never been happier then the moment I stopped believing in life after death. Not the physical one, it would be too obvious. Life after death inside us. Every time I exhaled the unfulfilled. It freed me from apathy and boredom, and again I can hear myself at night counting. But how do you count…

  • Words are parasites that inhabit my delicate skin

    And then the words started coming out. One by one, ⠀ they competed with each other, which is to be the first to reach my body. ⠀ The blows are more painful than the baton itself. Word by word, naked body, ⠀ sticking condemnations to the same one. ⠀ ⠀ Words are parasites that ⠀…

  • I will never be big enough to light up the whole room

    I am the Candle, the cast of wax. A wick is stringed through me. Sometimes short, sometimes long. I’m lucky if it’s long, but it also means I’ll burn longer. It means that I’ll live longer, although every time I feel like it becomes shorter. I will melt my own body with tears, whenever you…

  • They are already dead, but they don’t know it

    Sometimes I hear only the echo of what I intended to write. A cry from the desolation I leave behind when I have nothing more to give. And that cry turned into an echo, it soon disappears into the distance. And I can’t stop the silence after, because only silence triggers my quietness. It’s quite…

  • A butchered dream can last a lifetime if you nourish it well

    I feel your movements inside me, meaty taste of obedience, fractal dynamics of the ballerina. I see your bloody miniature feet leaving traces around me, at a rapid pace, and every footprint tells novels. I see you scraping your nails over the edges of your own of pre-coded existence not knowing what you’re missing until…