They are already dead, but they don’t know it

Sometimes I hear only the echo
of what I intended to write.
A cry from the desolation I leave behind
when I have nothing more to give.
And that cry turned into an echo,
it soon disappears into the distance.
And I can’t stop the silence after,
because only silence triggers my quietness.
It’s quite weird
that I’m accepted much better
then when I talk with sewn lips.
So, here I talk.

In my world, a woman is just a paradox,
blank box with blank fields
which I have to fill
because I am mesmerized by the gaps
which don’t have their meaning,
because they occupy the space too much.
I have nothing to give, but I take away
a space they serve me, naked and no one,
seeking, always seeking to be fulfilled,
categorically claiming that they are already full.
But, a man who isn’t understood
best understand those who don’t know themselves.

They will swallow their testimony
and tighten confidence,
delve into these words, and they will be comfortable.
Just look at the veins on their neck,
how they jump to the touch, the unknown, foreign,
how they fall in love with ideas,
and never into what given to them.
And when the point of destruction reaches them,
then they remember that they are not loved,
and they are already dead, millenniums back,
but they don’t know it,
because they are alive only when they belong,
to anyone.

On a scale from wishful thinking to invisible
I achieved martyrdom,
but like any artist,
I’m afraid my killer will
stay remembered longer than I,
as someone chasing victory, out of envy,
who also wants to be charge with my actions.

But what if my killer is already inside me?
What if below the crossed line
there is only a stain that is read-only in language,
and he and I rearrange the patterns
on the mosaic of all torn bodies
that I bookmarked to stay remembered?

Scattered letters that escaped all words
which I wrote down on various body parts.
What if, in the form of cuts
which I painted in an attempt to capture
bring the killer back to me again?
With red prison bars
I enclosed all the space,
each bar – one cut.
But I couldn’t predict
signs of a minefield that has expanded
as soon as I forgot to feed
one that killed every potential
love for me.

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