Poetry

Have you come for work or pleasure?

Have you come for work or pleasure?
It’s always the first for you,
your job to swallow the men and spit them out.
Satisfaction comes after,
it’s in you, it feeds you and boosts your ego.
And you wouldn’t choose any other way.

I trembled to knock on your door,
random kisses,
intentional laughs
and the random hotel sex that followed,
how you intentionally pulled me
into the hotel bar and said
“Are you for whiskey?”
You know I don’t refuse whiskey,
and you even less, wearing mesh stockings.

Now I paint your hands on bullets,
I polish the trigger.
(I’m not the one you love, am I?)

I collected all these fantasies
like they are garbage
for recycling that was
once also worth something, right?
I’m much bigger from
my admiration to you,
scattered looks
behind the counter,
and the eyes that are dying only to keep you.

Yes, maybe I am
an eternal student
who can’t understand
the abstract noun for you – love.
Maybe I’m just
maniac in the crowd
throwing banality before
the world that judges me,
but the price wasn’t you,
and we both know
who won.

So how are you today?
Am I going to wait again in front of your door
while I’m looking through the scrawled
Venetian blinds, silk cord,
tied around your neck?
(because it gives you a sense of domination)

You’ve expanded your path
by additional journeys
on your skin.
As I soak my cigarette in a whiskey,
I hear voices behind the door, always a little open,
because you like being watched by others.
How wouldn’t you?

They say that you made your decision,
and that you’ll always choose the “job”
in which you are doing so good,
to satisfy yourself with pleasure after.

But I say that you were murdered,
imprinted in the silence
of a world that doesn’t want to stop talking.
It swallowed you.

And that’s why I can’t blame you.

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