Did she know that I’m a word that can’t be pronounced?

Yesterday I saw the reflection of my smile
as I was cutting the wire between
what I am and what she sees in me.
I never wanted her to walk upon it with legs built of glass.
That smile cut me, full of her pain.

Already sufficiently diminished to match the size of my hand,
my fingers overload her body, before my pride.
Even I have a conscience, no matter how filthy it is.
I felt that I became only a look,
disappointing, destructive, merciless,
penetrating through her shell,
outgrowing what she gave me,
letting go of what I couldn’t give her.

I will always be a representative of realism,
a symbol of loneliness and distrust,
though I can love her better
on the other side of this glass wall,
scanning the arrows that others throw at her
and put my fists in front of her so that they don’t stab her.
It all seems simple
when I neglect how I have complicated
something that is meant to be truly pure.

As much as I wanted to hold her forever,
the winds of my selfishness broke our sails,
the seas inside me must have been split by my hands,
while I was swimming in the wrong bodies.
It’s time for her to learn to walk on earth
because this wire is broken.

Conditional love is always one-sided,
spinning like a broken record,
disturbing the confidence.
Every move of the needle
cuts me and scratches me, every sound,
as if she hadn’t had plenty of needles in herself,
as if I’m not full of them.

I wonder if I know I belong to a mental minority.
Do I unconsciously or intentionally
know that my chances of success are minimal,
that I can’t love her better, but only like this?
Her name will be chewed up within an hour
if the conscience doesn’t stop chewing me.
Was she aware she was entering a fire
when she decided to burn her own?
Did she know that I’m a word that can’t be pronounced,
tickling her throat, clutching her vocal cords?

No, she doesn’t have to be scared anymore,
I came too far to humiliate myself,
I just want to keep her at a reasonable distance.
If I can’t break this wall, I’ll dig my way under it,
so everyone will remember the girl with a pure heart
and a reckless idler, who wanted to dig up her heart
with dirty hands because it wasn’t enough
to cross over the other side of the wall.

However, you can’t allow
unconditional love to play only once.
It lasts, even when the gramophone is broken.
In that case, I will be an inexhaustible metaphor for her,
and she’ll never know I was willing to love her better.
I just never learned how.

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