House without visitors,
life without notice,
invisible among delusions and slaps,
silently sobs behind its walls,
even though they crush and suffocate me.
Bottle floating in muddy water,
without a letter,
without a signature,
there’s no one to receive it.
That house is a skeleton,
that house is me.
Even the skeleton has a soul.
For some of us,
if we’re lucky,
we will never run out of
sunny days without worry
in a house full of laughter.
For others, life is a puzzle
of incomplete moments,
too much of them spent,
unnoticed and forgotten,
behind the non-talking structures,
because words are too difficult to pronounce.
Am I selfish for wanting
to be free,
to be me even though the structure is tearing up,
and beneath it, the adhesive bones are crying out
to be released as well?
If the union of so many tired souls is wrong,
let me feel this lonely forever,
like awake death,
with one eye watching
how the breath leaves the cold hallways in me.
I wondered what the power of these souls was,
why they moved on,
what led them further,
if anyone ever gave them common sense.
If so, did they know how to use it?
I wondered, but those are rhetorical questions,
like flares burning up in the basement of my soul.
I never imagined that I could become who I am now,
the neighbor in isolation.
There’s nothing more to do,
some of us are by nature and destiny
deceived, left behind, forgotten,
we don’t need sympathy,
we support ourselves,
in a house without visitors,
thrown into the hallucination that we are the only ones here,
cursed with the feelings that
were unknown until recently.
We are sitting at the table,
trying to open our mouths
to feed ourselves.
But in the end, it’s always a royal feast
with a mandatory side dish- self-destructiveness.
Sometimes even breathing is an effort.
Perhaps, the problem is I’m not giving up.
Like the body, the skeleton responds to grief,
shutting down, closing,
switching off the last light
in a ghostly house where
the original versions of me are hanging upside down.
I should have known.
Was that a preparation or warning,
that time when I started to get suspicious,
but then I had hope
and now I was cut off by loneliness,
not by whispering as much by silence.
And I see my reflection fading
as I walk past a mirror without frames.
These frames are my limitations,
but glass is my condemnation.
Whenever I visit others,
I visit myself,
because I know the blade is a bone
which I sharpened only to protect myself.
Not to become someone
who I have always should be
before I ever lived,
before the time that counts down the loss?
Although losing yourself isn’t the most suitable word,
because you cannot lose something
you never owned,
in a house that was never yours.