Yes, I admit, I’m not well.
Forgotten: consumed by the flames of authority,
fading flaws in the past,
I wasn’t a master of my dynamics.
A broken piano whose keys no one wants to touch.
Dust under the nails
when they try to scratch my heart.
My mind- I love the stories you tell me,
terrified by your indifference,
but I don’t influence the way
my inner beast reacts when the fire scares it.
But don’t be afraid of evil when it’s only around me,
the problem is when they make it in me,
a primate circus, where everyone plays their part,
and no content is needed
as long as it rhymes and contains four-syllable words
and was rated old-fashioned / very rare in the dictionary.
You in one hand,
your unreal existence
levitates when I move it.
The meat is singing, but my bones are stagnant.
One day I will open my mouth,
devour the pursuers,
become one with these words.
Sometimes I think I can’t say enough to be scared,
sometimes I don’t think I need to speak at all.
Yes, it’s still me,
an ornament of your idealization,
conceived as someone who knows how to prioritize.
I’ll only admit that I’m not well.
And you are still you,
a string that I must not tune,
I don’t distinguish instruments from humans,
but I forgot to play.
They say I should let you go,
but why should I feel satisfied with the truth?
I could never handle your thoughts,
so why don’t you continue to not exist in mine?
Someone who would remain anonymous once said:
“You must respect others’ feelings.”
I remember sticking to it.
I remember when my body was full of threads,
afraid to make a move
so I don’t catch anyone else
into my trap,
into my yarn.