justkiddiing

Een vreemd boeket staat in mijn leefkamer.

De donkerpaarse zwerm verwerkt niet.

Dus ik verwijder het niet



Al is de eetkamer gevuld met vliegen

Op zoek naar zoete vruchten

Die hier niet te vinden zijn



Al is de slaapkamer gevuld met scherven

Van kopjes die wij wanhopig

Niet proberen te breken



Maar we ruimen wel op

En de bloemen staan ze zo mooi

Ook al hebben ze geen geur.

• click to see this quote •

so lately
bridges have been calling me
calling to be built
calling to be burnt
calling to be jumped from

I have only build them
don't have the heart to burn them
can only burn myself 
afraid of putting myself out
at the bottom of the river

should be proud of those
engeniering skills and selective hearing
but birthdays are not parties for me
so much to celibrate 
nothing makes me sing

I'm sitting on the bridges
feel the bottom of the river
calling my flames
my feet feel supported
by the strong cool steel

The man on TV says, This is the big one, folks. The man 
says, Call your mother and say

goodbye. To save themselves, thousands of people jump 
to the bottom of a river and turn 

into fish. Fish survive devastation. Fish don’t worry about
whether they’re loved. What does 

it mean to “end” anyway? To be a person and then a body. 
To be a city and then a ruin. Maybe

someone should give this world the Heimlich. Maybe it’ll 
cough up all the good people it 

swallowed and choked on too soon. I think the birds are
in mourning. I think the trees feel

sorry for us. Too bad about all that skin covering all those
little bones. Too bad about that noise

emanating from the heart, untranslatable and strange. How
does the song go? Something about

feeling fine. I put a note in your pocket that said: CALL
ME WHEN YOU GET THERE.

You never got there.

Some days I am more
low shoulers than strong back
am more deep sigh than fierce words
am sad
am world inside me crumbeling
instead of florishing 
or coliding

and today might be such a day
of slow of blue
of getting trough with 
snow and tea
snuggle sweaters
steam, blush on cheeks
a smile that could mean nothing
or everything

of getting trough

I was fourteen when I had a vision
of my dieing by my own hand
not that day, not the next one
but soon because in the vision
I was still a little girl

I wept for my death
bought flowers, bought a black dress
prayed till my knees were red
to absolve my sins before I went

and then I didn't
not that year, not the next one
not before my eighteen and
not the years after

but the fear did not leave
there is still time and
n the mirror I still see
a little girl

I am so tired of waiting.
Aren’t you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two —
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.

everything happens for a reason
but somethings just turn out
bad, wrong, rotten

you might be excited
to enter a new world or way or
walk of life now you met me
however you call this
venture in my head

but I am still a scared little girl
I'm still tossing and turning in my head
questioning my creator and self
scared if I will scar myself again
this time in my new self destruction

but it's new right?
and it's fun
right?

On some nights
I write because eventhough it is quite imbarrasing
it's not as imbarrasing as contemplating suicide
and the humiliation when someone spots me and sighs
not this again

so I write because
yes this again
this feeling of needing to put the pain inside
outside
taking out the trash wherther it is
cutting wrists, writing anything, jumping bridges, blowing bubbles, reading poetry, crying buckets, talking about (it), healing from (it), remembering (anything)
as long as it keeps this stinking mess outside
only for tonight

I need to put the mess outside for tonight
because I want to sleep
I want to sleep because I can't sleep
because my body want to keep hurting itself
while it wants to heal itself
this is the human condition
this is my duality