Let thirteen dogs in despite what momma told me.
Used my last money to buy bullets for my father’s gun.
Sang along to Halleluiah. Spoke the Lords name,
Allowed the king of night to call me with the name the good Lord gave to me.
I sleep and I regret, this every moment of absence over pinning;
This every moment of aching, of touching air,
Of losing so much blood
And not feeling human.
I close my eyes and get what I crave.
I open my eyes, I get what I want.
It’s the same.
As cruel as a grey haired temple monk
Who laughs at everything
And grins his teeth into mellow moons
That chant “It will pass”.
Where, oh where, did you go, my love?
I’m damaged in just the perfect way.
Wish you’d lower me down
To the bottom of the river bed
And sang to me.
I love, now, I know, I think I do at least –
Because it feels just like I am on a feast,
Sitting there naked, bereaved and dreaming
Without a single bite to eat;
I let the girls stuff their mouths,
I watch their hearts explode.
He is, though, a woodpecker
Tucked behind my ventricles;
I swear on most days I wake up
Just to hear his voice.
I love. I love what it does to me.
My young self and shards of glass.
My young self, holding hands under the stars.
My young self, sprawled across the grass.
My young self would not mind to live on Mars.
She still does not know
What I knew then.
There are people.
I am the supermarket.
There are people.
Think about that.
Think about that
While you’re picking from my shelves.
Think about that while you
Chew my heart like a candy bar.
Think about that while you dunk my soul in milk
And pour over hot tea.
Wish we were same pieces of shit.
I must exercise
Rolling this off my tongue
And onto the pavement.
Let it sound like an arrogant poem.
I will listen,
But I will also
Turn your confessions into perversion.
It’s what I do.
I do it for me; I’ll do it for you.
I love you, Jesus fucking Christ,
I love you, it’s enough.
I need to get a driver’s license.
I need to drive to your house.
Twenty six years and eleven months.
At night I dream of the devil
Spoon feeding me sugar.
I moan. I want to moan.
Moan his name straight back into his mouth,
Like an ancient prayer known
Only to some pothead student
At a university of faith in Belgium.
I don’t even know if such a thing exists.
I don’t care.
Twenty six years and eleven months
Is what I would give
For this current month of honeyed and stupid, fragile flowers
Not to end.
Fathers don’t care.
Fathers are just traders of our hands.
Fathers are trains
That never arrive
And leave you lonely and unprepared
At the middle of the station
While you also left your umbrella at home.
Oloriel is a poet and artist hailing from Belgrade, Serbia. She loves dreaming up things then making them happen, whilst also being a wife, mom, artist, photographer, translator and designer. Her greatest wish is to one day become a chef, and make the best pies in the world. She blogs at color me in cyanide and cherry