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 you stop turning
during an existential crisis.

I cut my finger on that truth
trying to stop you,
tearing my flesh
to silence your voice
when they ask me how you feel,
but when one feels someone else’s movements
they forget about what it’s like to spin in their body.
You were bleeding and bleeding,
in capital letters of negation.
People offered me napkins,
but nothing could stop you from bleeding.
Others pushed the glass into the wound
only to see how much it can expand
until you assimilated into my skin.
A butchered dream
can last a lifetime
if you nourish it well.
You hear me, don’t you?

When they came for our words
we dug the ground with our hands
in search of
perfect hideout,
but we didn’t know
that their goal was
to find that place.
At dusk, we covered our faces
and hoped for the light of others,
that it will be a little brighter
then our light;
not enough to extinguish
our flames,
just enough to give them

They tell us to accept
what makes us different,
but not to lose our hearts.
They knew too little.
I pawned you in exchange for peace of mind
before any group of their words,
to redeem you later,
more made of flesh and blood,
a little less injured,
with new dance shoes,
with trained movements,
a little more caring than before.
So I can continue to walk
if I ever learn to dance like you
in someone else’s body.

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