Bleeding out

Missing you is like being torn in two.

My body gaping open in the middle,

a hole where you were supposed to be

leaking organs and fluids 

and everything I was meant to hold in.

Memories and late night secrets 

and the dark ooze of a past I rather forget

but I cannot not remember now,

it lying here in the open

because pain remembers pain.

I think I counted on you to fix me,

in some magical way like my hand on 

your face would just ctrl alt del 

all the fuckery I experienced

or maybe the simplicity of your existence, 

eat sleep shit play would just 

magically uncomplicate me

and you did.

It doesn't mean I didn't love you for you,

there's no way anyone would have been able

to not love you for you cause you were 

exquisite and extraordinary. It means that 

you immediately became a part of me, 

not just my life, growing into me like a 

second skin or a piece of heart, or anything essential to breathing, that I am not whole without, that without, I am again broken.

I am unwhole because I was loved, because

I love, because I dare to make place inside me

to be filled and completed, and to be 

vulnerable for loss and to miss and to grieve, 

and you were one of the voices to teach me,

to show me that was ok to do, that I should

feel safe to be open, that I was safe with you. 

I trusted you and I do not regret it even if I might die from bleeding out your loss.

Marionette

I love brokenly

but wholly.

A marionette without a string 

but still a doll.

Made to play with,

to discard,

when bigger and better things

come someone's way.

Or that's what they made me believe.

It's easier to tell the other

that something, some -thing-

is wrong with them.

Yes.

I'm stitches and bruises 

but not in that way.

Not your way.

Not because I don't care.

Dans

Als je mij ziet dansen,

met mijn voeten bloedend,

laat mij gaan.

En als het regent, 

en als het stormt,

en als ik zing om 2 u ‘s nachts,

zonder slaap,

laat mij gaan.

Laat mij dansen.

Stop mij niet.

Als je mij ziet dansen

met mijn voeten bevroren,

laat mij gaan.

Mijn voeten maken kunst,

spellen hen en hun,

en mijn liefde uit.

En als ik huil terwijl ik lach,

laat mij gaan.

Ik dans zodat ik niet te stoppen ben.

Als je mij ziet dansen,

met mijn voeten gebroken,

laat mij gaan.

Mijn voeten kussen de grond

waarop ik mijzelf geboren heb.

Ik ben gelukkig

en heel 

en thuis.

Dus als je mij hoort schreeuwen 

terwijl ik dans,

laat mij gaan.

Ik dans omdat ik mijzelf ben.

Ik ben vrij.

Dus laat mij gaan

of dans met mij.

1116911

Should have told me 

so I knew what to expect.

You should have prepared me

for the clock being turned back to zero.

And I don't know what you were thinking

when you didn't warn me that

all my hard work now meant absolutely nothing.

What's the point,

if the point keeps breaking?

The helpless staying forsaken,

the powers that be keep turning their head?

And what's the point,

if the heroes are the villains?

When their painted on smiles are lying

and you keep having to protect yourself?

Should have listened

when I told myself not to trust you. 

I had prepared myself 

and still the outcome took me by surprise. 

And I don't know what I was thinking

when I let you turn me into a fool

just because I thought it was the right thing to do.

(How am I going to save them now?)

Wrong

Wrong

I will always think I'm not enough.

My body holds all my compressed failures.

Like seeing myself through a fun house mirror.

There's always some distortion there.

It's easier to count mistakes that way.

The spot on the surface that dared to linger,

now finds its place as a tick on the finger.

Unhindered by the sudden change.

There's always that one wrong line,

whether it be on my face or my painting,

that has me scrutinise me existing 

in this world in the first place.

I'm not an imposter, I am a full on mistake.

Fraud, as a word, will simply never cut it.

It requires my skin to at least fit

snugly around the things I am hiding.

No, I am obstinate in my disillusionment

that my self hatred deserves better.

But I can't even think of a word to get her.

I reckon this poem won't be worthy.

Endings

I miss you.

I thought I was over that by now.

It's been over a decade ago

that we fell out.

And in my head it felt like a pause.

And in my head I'm lost.

And in my head it wasn't enough.

And I'm breaking now that you're lost.

Now that you died,

the world turned on its axis,

expectations subverted,

bringing permanence to how I miss.

Now that you died,

Everything is no longer as it seems.

I have to actually say goodbye to you

and a part of me wants to scream:

Fuck you for dying

for I never got to say:

How are you doing now?

How were all your days?

Fuck you for dying.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

You were supposed to live forever.

We were supposed to meet up one day.

But I'm not actually angry.

The anger is just a lie,

A looming sadness in disguise.

Not understanding why you died.

I have to realign 

all I thought I knew.

There's an ending 

to what this thing I knew.

I just miss you.

I thought I was over that by now.

I never healed the old wounds 

and they're bleeding out.

Into depression 

and into my mouth.

The world is trying to move on 

and it's too loud.

I wish I could just drown it out.

I wish I could just drown.

But I got to be the one

leaving you behind now.

And it sucks. 

Lone grave