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If we reap what we sow,
if karma is real,
if we give back what we give,
then the heavy chain around her neck is her making.

And silence is her consequence,
and the absence is her creation.
You just stepped into the mud
in which she raised herself from marble.

All her dead illusions dance with
old delusions.
Who did she bring
to this world
when she immigrated from her soul?

A former version of her
along with the present one,
is carried over the edge of the world
in the cages.
You were in one of them,
but it tears you that she’s first to tear you apart.

Although the first version was temporary,
and in the present, she still
doesn’t understand the meaning,
however, she keeps an eye on the graves of her sins,
lost love, burning candles,
but the wax glued her habits
to every inch of her body.

The graves opened a long time ago,
but that root around them must be plucked from time to time.
The question always was: whose root first?
Don’t you recognize what you’ve planted inside her?

The impermanence scratches her.
The distance bothers her.
She loves what surrounds her,
but she cuts it persistently until it touches her again.

But, you’re thinking of taking her in your own hands,
to pick her up and save her.
From what?
You can’t realize that she
became a gravestone to herself.
That hands cannot brake.

She knows you won’t try,
not with words,
even though you handle them well,
each one carefully selected.

But words are murdered
when they have no power.
You left the knife inside yourself,
left with your indifference,
which only appears when
it’s easier to put yourself above the unchanging.

You slipped under the water,
filling your pockets with stones,
masochistic like you know it,
making up a new story
how to tear down a gravestone
in one move,
how to peel the mask off her face.

She would show you her true self,
but you said that wasn’t enough either.

Because she was tired of being loyal,
and you’re getting older no longer keeping your words.

Now they’re buried.
Along with parts of the disguised rage
and her confidence.

She cannot start over because she’s still
tied to her roots,
now she likes them even more.

That’s the perversion of prisoner
in love,
that she wants to change,
but in no way to look for it,
at the same time.

You’ve lost all your genius moves,
because she cannot fit into your illusion.
She cannot fit into a limited frame
of your needs to idealize her.
She’s not ideal, and that makes her untouchable.

She used to know a way how to turn
the walk into a race with her demons.
Now she takes a step back
and makes them watch her in slow motion.
You’re among them, but the blindfold
is too tightly tied
around the eyes when a farce has cut them.

She would jump into the cold waters
of her conscience, or what’s left of it,
she would curl up and slip into her cuts,
where the only thing touching her is
the memory of the original version of herself.

And as you collect her like a bunch of roses
and you get lost in her petals
before they’re released
and they fall slightly to the ground,
she’s no longer a rose.

The form of things to come
are a secret stuck in her throat,
a black orchid she cannot swallow,
and the ashes of memories fall from her lashes,
frying your fingers.

She was a girl of damage and bruises,
you could see the embers under her eyes,
like the makeup of the 80s at an empty concert.

She was never a charming princess,
but the girl playing the piano with her eyes closed,
because she couldn’t read music
nor find a way to release the notes.

In ten years
you’ll find yourself out there somewhere,
thinking you didn’t entirely plant yourself
inside her, while avoiding the age of innocence,
wanting to be her hero.

Or maybe, you’ll remember
how she swallowed you,
spit out your seeds
to scatter you on the land on which now she stands proud.

She opened up her stomach
to the sound and anger
and became a gambling place full of whiskey,
people with empty eyes,
people that don’t mind rising around her legs,
made of marble.

You will wonder why she
wanted to be
every bad thing
which she never forgot.
But you’ll never know.
Maybe you could, but you didn’t dig
deep enough in her darkness,
as she licks it off her fingers
and licks her lips with a bitter-sweet smile.

You will carry her with you,
as an aphrodisiac imprinted
into the skin until you run out
of the last breath.

You’ll rub her like a coin
between your fingers for happiness,
even though you know what she brings.

And if you dare to leave
to the place where she raised you
and put you down, the same land will burn your footsteps.

And in another life, you will become
just another drunken tattoo, reaching its end.
Just another smile in the collective conscience,
when the stamp is already affixed.
Voluntary blood donation
and waiting for testing.

And when they ask you
what do you think,
you can tell them right away,
the blood will be infected
by the sadness that remained
and never left,
but also by the juiciest poison
without which you can’t live.

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