Tamara Stamenkovic
Poetry,  Written literature | Author's writings

I am a man reluctant to call himself the man

Please me.
Win me.
This time I’m handing over my bones,
please me,
split them in half,
then crush them.
Taste my loss,
although I may not deserve it,
but today is such a day,
and I live from the night.

I don’t know about disciplines,
I don’t appreciate them.
I don’t obey the backbone of rules and order,
sooner, I break mine, so that I don’t carry others’ mistakes.
I only know digression
from what my weak emotion dictates.
That’s why I step away,
that’s why I’m giving you permission
to take advantage of this day,
in a variation of my nights.
Here you go.

I can’t explain my heart,
because I’m not a man of emotions,
I am a man reluctant to call himself the man.
But I’ll give you my rotten core,
and every discarded limb
that no longer serves me as before,
and the seed from which bitterness came,
very precious to me now,
so try it and tell me how you feel.
And, I’ll give you my bone marrow,
to grow a tree out of it,
though you will not cherish it.
You won’t get a chance,
because it’s only one day.
I’ll burn it
before it grows into eternity,
and the burns will only be worn by me.

Satisfy me today,
just to believe it
that I’m a satellite in your sky,
which is looking for a signal to crash
in your crotch.
Or even stardust
which fills the void
between your breasts.

Better something than nothing,
because nothing comes from nothing,
nor is it created again.
Do it again.
We’re all fools when we are in love,
that our separate time doesn’t dry up
and as we die, we sink into a gloomy grave,
unfulfilled,
desperately convinced we are full,
avoiding the question:
“What if once we lay down
in the bed of ashes,
we become last,
but never fulfilled together?”

Entertain me with your morbidity,
today is such a day,
the darker it is, the warmer the blood in me.
Empty yourself without consolation,
empty me in the shape of your lips,
taste me.

Simply look at the no-play endings,
don’t look at the beginning,
it wouldn’t be named ending if we didn’t end up with a period.
I’ve been rewinding them all these years,
I put the bitter dried cherries
into your mouth, without color and taste,
you love it like that,
to feel a lump under your tongue,
as loss, consolation, poison, misery.

Plunge into me,
bend your neck to look at wrinkled skin,
a little deeper, a little closer,
touch it,
excite me.

Your familiar vibe
as a reminder
that I am never whole,
but I applaud your intrusion
in everything forbidden to the world, including you.
But now you see,
not everything that lives is alive,
it only causes arrhythmia and constriction,
as you wrap a silk thread around a heart like this.
One end tied to the skin,
the other is hooked and hangs,
over the edge where everyone who dreams
must fish nightmares first.

Then, release the thread and jump
into the dirtiest waters.
Because we’re not stable enough
to hold on to one another.
Win me,
although I may not deserve it,
although I probably deserve it,
dig with my hands
everything in me,
don’t get yours dirty.

Assess risk,
calculate the chances,
probability always goes in your favor.
Only today we’re making
prisms of blunt walls and moving music.
We are figurines in our clock,
counting down the seconds to eventual loss.

Let me free myself
when our echoes collide
in the center of the flame,
not before.

When I close my eyes,
to see the forest in your eyes,
as I squirm and fall in front of you
in rivers and fire,
as I fold and melt,
as I disappear into the box from the lack of space,
and the key levitates in the air.

We exchange the key
with your mouth open,
because my hands are busy
keeping yours in the center of my blood clotting.
Let everything be red from touch.
Let it leak let it burn,
take me, turn me into whatever you want today,
bury my heart under a miracle
that maybe once you could figure it out,
as long as I follow your step,
but you don’t have enough time and no regrets,
because we are just whispers at dawn,
and that dawn will continue to exist without us.
I hope so, at least.

Please me.
Although I may not deserve it,
because we are nothing,
except for wildness in the wind,
against our inevitable end.

Where this leads, I don’t know,
but I say with certainty that,
if we melt like glass,
nothing remains behind us,
apart from the memory of today,
to fall into each other’s devouring,
the sweet taste of eternity on the lips
amid a bitter storm.

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