I was too serene in life

and needed an earthquake.


Like a sad tangerine

which finds its end on

an ugly kitchen counter.

While the wind was blowing,

I was fading and peeling.


Birds are pecking at the nothingness

of everyday life

and leave me with a brutal crack,

without any instructions on

how to repair my own wounds. 


That song from my dad's old cassette tape torments my ear

and takes me where the wounds are painful,

like those left by surgery

on an open heart.


I take my mother’s old pen 

and soak it in the ink.

I'm spilling my whole soul

on a second-hand notebook

that I received from that American aunt.


Six of diamonds, an unknown book of destiny.


My soul hurts

but something, something, something,



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