Poetry

Days like these

There are days when my memories slip under my skin.
I feel them moving through my body,
take forms of different people and feelings,
I feel them watching me as I look at myself.

I feel my memories wink at me,
as if they were living beings inside me,
not moments left a long time ago.
It took me a long time to wake up,
it took me a long time to encourage them
to appear when I never expected them.

Days like these come,
when I watch how my memories, by accident
throw things in front of me again,
things I’ve never faced,
but I convinced myself that I was.
They spill every drop that’s poured over
my collection of glasses from the past.
And the more drops fall, the more I feel them
-they are all bitter.

Days like these come,
when bitter tears are pouring,
and they become just another drop that never dries.
Thoughts become overwhelmed wounds that cannot heal,
ones that never had the opportunity to create their waves
and they hit me, looking at me like the perfect rock.

But sometimes, they heal me, opening my wounds.
Then, when they persistently bleed, these waves come as rinsing wounds.
The bleeding stopped, but…
I sympathize with them because I know I belong to them,
although I never dared to say it out loud.

Days like these come,
when I’m frightened of the strength of the waves,
when I fear the power of memory,
when I’m scared of the value of memories,
when I’m afraid of my own shadow,
because I know it hides far more than I do.

And I’m surprised
that I feel myself breathing
despite the feeling in my stomach that twists my whole flow of thoughts.
And all the written creations around me
are just proof that something happened,
that it started from somewhere.
And every time I shake my memories,
every time my inner existence embraces me,
I relive for one minute, just for one minute.

I bleed out that minute,
that minute I dissipate myself in a sea of ​​bitter tears
that claim my existence and reject me,
looking at me as the perfect rock they aim at;
who will get there first and who will hit harder,
which memory will first slide under my skin
and which one will wink at me first…

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