No name

I'm made of wants, not can do's.

Little sparkling baubles of joy 

That are hanging just out of reach.

I'm made of wants, not can do's. 

Desires that remain untouched, 

Like bodies under the hands of

A stumbling and uncaring man.

Never quite getting there.

Never completely satisfactory. 

Never listening to guidance.

I'm made of wants, not can do's.

Barriers, unbroken,

Fill my body up

To form a maze between 

The one and the other. 

A maze that I need to traverse,

That I need to run through

(With energy that I do not have),

That I can't climb my way out 

Because the walls keep on growing 

Higher.

I'm made of wants, not can do's.

Wishes and plans for a future

That I do not have my hands on.

That I sometimes fear I need to let go off.

Not that I can release 

The grip of my hands 

Because what if by some miracle I can?

What if nothing becomes something?

I'm made of wants, not can do's. 

I don't want to die, 

But sometimes I want to die.

Because isn't this already like death?

This isn't living.

It isn't sleeping. 

It is not resting.

And it never truly is healing this

Monotony out of me.

I die a little every day,

Rinse, repeat, anew.

I lie in the same bed

Withering away hoping like a fool.

I melt into the surroundings,

Into the seconds,

Into the dreams

That keep me out of the present, 

That make me dissociate,

That make me want, and…

Fuck.

I just want to live.

Have wants that become trying

That become cans that become

New things I didn't know I had in me.

Like the fresh air I know I haven't in me.

I'll be OK with the bare minimum. 

I'll make do if it's more than this stillness.

This unbreaking of things holding me down.

This chaining.

This stasis. 

This carving out of a perfect fit space and

I,

I just want to have the room 

To bleed out.

PAIS

Achter deuren

Spelen zich af

Gesloten verhalen,

Geen open einde.

Achter deuren

In het duister getast. 

Levens die, ooit,

De wereld aanraakten.

Boeken

Achter slot en grendel.

Onbeschreven pagina's

Zonder liefde van een pen.

Manuscripten 

En ongeopende documenten 

Die we niet als

Levens hebben erkend.

You're the professional

How can you assume to know that I am doing well,

If you don’t ask me?

If I cannot talk to you?

If you can’t truly tell?

How can you assume that I am stable,

If you ignore the things I am saying?

When I am expressing that I am hurting

And you applaud me for being able

To not drown,

To keep going,

To make sure

I don’t let myself down.

To not lose myself

Into the unhealth of my brain

And stay alive while

Feeling so unwell.

I thought you were supposed to help

But what you want is to keep me one foot out of the door.

Pronounced guilty for taking up space.

Like I am not enough to be helped.

Bury your dead

There is a loneliness in holding my sadness 

alone in my hand, while you tell me I should not be mourning. 

I wish there was a way in which I can explain to you 

what you make me carry in silence. It is not just the death, 

or the memories, or the knowledge I once gathered 

from my community that I keep on having to bury. It is knowing 

that you do not get it. It is knowing that 

no matter what I do, 

my life will never measure up to your expectations,

neither will my friends, even though they are the ones

that carry me on their backs. Unless, of course,

we decide to be something inspirational.

A fairy to your magical dreams about how you

can be better, how at least you do not have it

worse, because you have two feet and the ability

to use them. God forbid other things are important.

I do not want your life, is that so hard to understand?

I do not want to fit in a box that is two sizes too small.

No I do not want your life, I want theirs back. And if that

requires some sacrifice of you, I demand it. I want

you to dig up what society has buried and deemed unworthy

and I want you to dig up the god awful truth of who you are.

Cause you don’t think we see you. We always see you.

We never really had a choice not to.

So no, I do not just carry my mourning. I carry 

my fed up ness, and my hurt, and my anger,

Boiling over so hard it might give me a heart attack one day,

all with it and if you expect me to untangle them,

well good fucking luck trying. You never will get me to release

any of it. If we do not mourn ourselves, no one ever will.

And if we are not angry about it, no one will ever be angry.

I gladly keep the torch burning and I will make an art out of

cursing your name. I will do my damn hardest at

splintering your peace. I will make you remember 

that we fucking exist. Understand this. You can’t kill us all.

But fuck, I wish you stopped trying.

I can hear you, asshole

Hands keep falling down like rain.

Screams that resonate in my ear.

Nights interrupted by the sound of pain

Have become all that I can hear.

I am finding my way through anger,

I am choking my tears like drinks.

I am having nighttime visions that gather

In which I swallow you up in a blink.

The protection of a life living.

Fists that have turned into knots.

A return of violence given.

A soul for a soul if you must.

You have the confidence of someone who thinks,

That we will ignore the way you are screaming.

That the world will not be listening in.

That you will always win.

Think again, my dear.

Fuck your facade

Do you know that I can see right through you?

Your smile doesn't reach your eyes like its supposed to. 

You're lying through your teeth and make it look easy,

And your greetings settle on me like they're greasy.

You're a trauma response in a leather jacket.

All fake smiles and thinking we will get it.

What's behind closed doors is not closed off.

I can hear your anger reverberating through the walls.

Fists and screams 

And faux alibis,

Downing that bottle 

Of cornerstone whiskey.

Until you see red,

Until you forget 

All inhibitions 

That you never had.

I can hear them landing.

I can hear the screaming. 

I can hear everything

Except you stopping.

I can hear the moments

That broke the innocence.

I wish my pen was a weapon

So I could write you to an end. 

You're nothing new.

You're a story as old as time

And it's a knowledge I already knew.

I have years of practice of holding my breath the longest….

Waiting

Two erratic heartbeats won't become a

Solid steady one, won't slow down, 

Won't become a story we want to tell.

Your fists didn't replace the beating 

Of my heart. It was just a beating.

The stories we tell

Convinced me I could save you.

If I could just love harder. 

Be better. 

Stay softer.

I jumped in front of Medusa for you

And you blamed me for turning to stone.

For being too hard.

Too unreachable. 

Was there truly another way for me to survive?

I have since melted,

By Medusa's administrations

(Who understood, victim to victim,

How unlovable love can be).

And I've learned to 

Be loved harder,

Expect better, 

Enjoy softer.

You have stayed the same.

Fake smiles,

All teeth,

Always somewhat unreachable,

Unfortunately, still not dead.

Are you waiting for me to safe you?