Part 1: Ask Me and I Will Tell You-Oloriel

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.

Its inflation.

Its communism.

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

2 Comments Add yours

  1. S Francis says:

    This is powerful, very powerful.

    Liked by 1 person

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