Tamara Stamenkovic
Poetry,  Written literature | Author's writings

Won’t you pity the body of an empty lover?

Are you attracted to injured animals?
Come here,
I’ll show you my scars.
I’ll tell you how I suffered
to make you come to understanding,
you’re not responsible for my careless desires.
Do you like it only when it can’t hurt you,
what you’re scared to touch,
do you like it when I temple?
You should be ashamed,
you’re the one walking on the other side of the bars.

Won’t you pity the body of an empty lover,
to hide inside?
I’d hear you say no,
if I didn’t see your eyes bleed,
penetrating my shame.
To love is to convince yourself
that there’s nothing more out there,
where is beautiful.
And I’m beautiful to you, aren’t I?
You see, it’s scary to me
to think that I am.

My cheeks turn red,
an unprepared face brings me
comfort in the mirror at night,
and now it tries to smile.
Because “beautiful” makes people
to think of you like a picture on the wall.
Sculpture, a dead body moving on display,
and spins in the hands of collectors.
“Beautiful” gives them the right to take action,
evaluate, own, buy.
“Beautiful” justifies the interest
to the point where it becomes creepy,
disturbing and fearful.
“Beautiful” destroys me.
Tell me I’m the worst embodiment of bad judgment.
An animal with no eyes, with head, turned upside down, shattered,
saying to itself:
“You don’t belong here, do you?”

I feel hollow,
like I’m hungry
for the still unknown grief
that will fill me.
I always look three times before crossing the street,
habit.
I repeat to myself:
“I’m in love with everything that failed.
That’s the reason I became a failure.”
I’m ridiculous, to the fear, and I like that.
Now I’m just afraid of losing that fear
that keeps my eyes wide open to search
between wrong turns
where your steps stray.

I’m the shell of the people I let go,
naked, devoted, accumulated dump,
covered in the form of a wound you gave me.

The very sight of us awakens the anger in me,
a fatal combination of sexual frustration and mere lust for power.
You reach forward, making sure you let your hand slide
along my back even though there’s too much space around us,
enough to remind you that you own me.

I breathe too loudly.
Did something happen, you ask.
No, I say,
just thinking about the end of the world.
How else to explain this feeling of loss?
I should have asked less.
I should have acted more intellectually.
More mature.
I must be so shallow now.
What have I done again?
I rewind the movie.
Have I degraded again
the entire female population?

Sometimes the journey to home isn’t long enough.
I’m trying to make the best of it,
but the truth is, I hate being in this body
which bleeds, bulges, produces hormones excessively.
I hate not being strong enough
to push you away when you grab me.

I had a dream to kill you, too.
To watch the life leave your confident look,
until you become nothing but wet,
human spot on the pavement.
I laugh in my solitude
at the thought of crucifying you
to the periods before and after my devastation.

It all seems ridiculous
until I point out the crack in between
your legs and say it’s irregular.
I say I have some needs,
to be seen, appreciated,
perhaps rude, piercing and belonging to someone,
and you tell me I’m beautiful.

And I think I could keep something for myself.
But, nothing is private, nothing is mine,
you take everything as a joke.
My reproductive organs,
my sexuality, even my personality.
It’s all just a base for others to be afraid of the surface.
So who would scratch under it if not you?
But what did I do to become so crucified
between your thighs and my ambitions?
I want to show you how I scream,
trying to keep my mouth shut.
But I’m screaming at you. You are here.

The time when you tell me
that I fail to control my emotions,
antagonizing my own
efforts to allow me legitimacy.
I’d like to say you don’t know what you’re talking about,
but what do I know about it?
So what if I’m a little in love with you?
So what if I dream of you sometimes,
and to kill you and to have you and not have you?
To love you, but not to own you.
And what if I was touching myself thinking about you?
I’m still valid of something I yet don’t know.
But I know when to play silly,
when to smile and pretend
to have the most fulfilling day in the world
only so I don’t feel bad when I think of you.

Does the thought of offering all this to you
makes it less valuable in your eyes?
In that case, maybe I’ll just despise you too,
when I don’t already know what I feel about myself.
It has nothing to do with love, does it?

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