wasted like a wreath of flowers on a coffin.
if it boils long enough, it makes an earthquake.
Trust me, this war has nothing to do with hope
that someone will save us.
Can it affect heroes with sharpened teeth
and cut thighs,
heroes who are dancing on glass,
and falling through it?
I know the answer because I live it.
The waves never reach the shore.
There are only screams and bulges left on it,
and somewhere under the waves, a slaughterhouse of people in flames.
It was supposed to be theirs,
but I can’t say I’m not glad it’s mine now.
I plagiarized their hearts
and made them everyone’s.
I took credit for all the heroes.
I never want to forgive myself.
(actually, I did that a long time ago).
But, how do you live beneath the guilt
which isn’t sufficiently damaged,
says the mass hysteria.
The same hysteria when a large group of people
imagines the same thing.
But hear the sound of the drums:
Life is not a realistic interpretation of us.
So sorry I didn’t pay attention,
sorry, I wasn’t there.
I’m sorry I felt like I was special,
but I can’t live on fantasy,
the fairies are starving, and castles are up.
It has always been like that,
and the happy ending is a farce here.
I’m sorry to let you know
that I did
a complete recovery.
Of all places, in the slaughterhouse of men
which burns in drops of water.
I want to go under it.
Isn’t it easier to be defeated?
To conquer the world not to tarnish your name?
To elevate someone else’s work instead of your own.
I guess you understand self-destructiveness
only when it destroys others.
No mental institution made
of blood and flesh, they will not receive me.
No one wants to take care of a grenade
which has always been a danger to humanity.
But I leave plagiarism behind
because I live it.
I’ll hit a shield if I have to.
A shield from myself.
Now, that seems strange for a person
who’s so obviously in love with words,
to not know any way to say: “I can do it.”
I was never an art
until I learned how to hurt the world.
I am a careful self-taught
who lick the words she throws out
to see if she still feels the taste.
Taste of captivity: sickly sweet.
People will say this is a story of someone else’s pain.
About trying to correct my shortcomings
filling in the stories of those who didn’t have time to narrate them.
But they’ll forget I’m one of them, too.
I say it’s about survival.
Every defeat gives me a choice,
even someone else’s,
and in the end, I always save myself,
because this is life,
a cynical smile and a sword that deforms him,
and this is us,
the people who hold the sword:
plagiarism of all heroes before and after us.