матвей кайнер.
laughs but is really sad inside.
я криворукий, кособокий
ни танцевать, ни петь, ни быть
я не могу
но эти строки
хотели жить




They said every admission of failure was a salvation from future breakdowns, but I've been broke for whole eternity and a few years after, and no one has told me that I was too young to be broke, to be down or to be sad, because nobody saw me. Every significant action makes you more visible, like helping local shelter is a code with opacity level, and you are a web designer developing a beautiful page for an advertisement campaign. As if you stole the cloak from poor Harry and he got punished for actions he didn't do. Society taught him how it works very early. It's that simple - be broke or broke someone else. Nobody cared if you were broken before. Nobody cared if your fists were red and bled. Red is a colour of the wine, and wine is a drink of winners, but you'd get only torn grape. Sometimes I scroll down my news feed and see how depressed everyone is over some silly things - wrong smartphone colour, or wrong chocolate flavour. I get up, forced, every morning to make sure I'll get worse at the end of the end. I am the cuts you leave on yourself so you could see that your body has some pigment inside it, it's not pale and monochrome, I am the whisper wrapped rapidly in a sort of prayer, so you could ask God about something without being forced to look in his eyes - surprisingly humanlike. '... And God made the beast of the earth after his kind and every thing that creepeth...' and them he made Adam and Eve, and Eve rebelled because that's what an enraged woman would do if you'll try to lock her up. I am the fist you thrust into the wall in a deliberate attempt to calm yourself; I am the blood running down your wall and living marks on all of the white shirts in your wardrobe as if those shirts were angel wings. But they are not, and you've got a geometry class to be on, so you change syllables and you get 'angle' because being sharp has always saved you from being hurt. I never was neither a product of bad parent care nor half care nor non-care, because I cared about myself, I cared to be dead and long gone. A hug is just an another attempt to hide your face, 'cause, really, 'liar, liar, cheeks on fire.' They said history is written with failures, but I didn't believe them. Because history is written with words, and I've become perfectly good with making them up from nowhere.

Yesterday I felt this strange half pain inside my stomach. It felt almost like someone stabbed me in a belly and then watched, calmly, how I bleed. Like every drop of my blood was a treasure and this someone needed to be sure I won't gave it all up to a stranger. As if my blood meant something. As if I meant something. Time is a suicide-bomber with whom you sit near in a subway. He trusts you with his dynamite, and you betray him because that's all you do - betray those you care about the most. He gave you his gun and asked 'Wouldn't you rather be dead?'. And then his bag, filled with explosives, detonated. You probably would rather be dead, but that's not your decision to make. You are a student loan given to your family, and you have no freedom whatsoever. Bled almost to death, I wore your skin yesterday. Sore skin, swallowed ankles, I wore your skin for the longest time. You had green eyes, so I wanted to beg your forgiveness. You had none. A fake clown's nose flowing red, feeding lies to those he welcomed in his house, learned to laugh and then tricked. I wore your skin yesterday, purple bruises flecked with yellow, filled with purity. I had no skin of mine, so I wore yours for the longest time. The feeling of safeness is measured not by how many police officers are outside your house watching the perimeter, but by the amount of numbers in your phone book you can call late night and ask to come, whatever the reason is. And by the amount of hands you can try to reach for silent support, but you rejected the first one and had no latter. I wanted to scream for you, to ask for one final look on me thrown rapidly in the dark, but I bled in the light of day, and you lived in another time zone. I spurted silently, while butterflies in my stomach hatched. They were spotless, and I was not.







Hello.

My name is made of letters I can't read, with sounds I can't pronounce, with syllables which hug your tongue as if they were a sweet honey. You can't call me by name; it never existed outside my ID card, I was trapped inside my 3x4 photocards, between two moments - when you realise a joke and when you begin to laugh. Your laughter could cure me of any venom, but not from the one I was. I poisoned you and everything I touched like sea water poisons things made of iron; I learned how to crawl under your skin and how to hide there waiting for the right moment, which somewhy was always late. You can't break what's already broken; you can't re-poison me as if I were Shakespeare character. You can't become immune to me, like Mithridates VI of Pontus, by taking a small amount of me every day, because with every word, with every quiet confession, I got deeper and deeper inside your veins. You lived your life like there were some strange rules written down in a book only you could see. Love is a very slow venom poisoning you with every extra second you keep on taking it instead of getting rid of. Love is a robbery, and there's no police in this city to come and save you. I loved you, and every time you refused to take my hand while we were in the laundry or the cafe or on the bridge crowded with people, I blamed myself. For not being good enough for you, or wearing raggedy clothes, or saying things I shouldn't. The truth was there, and I was seeking to get to it, as a monkey does while trying to catch the highest banana on a palm tree, but it has always slipped away. The truth was - there was no wrong or right, not even in a song - label 'No homo' kept us away from every place we could seek a shelter in. Loving you was never a choice. It was some sort of my personal blitzkrieg, and you conquered me with even an attempt to shield myself from my side. You went on through my veins, as Soviet soldiers in Praha in 1968, and my rebellion was silenced down the same way, so I held silence like a monk who vowed to do so. Now, of course, I can't even imagine how you could forgive yourself for things you haven't said out loud. But then I was silent as an author of a novel who keeps killing his heroes to grow the intrigue but ends up with only one background character, who is still a child and has no motive what so ever - so he gets a chance to leave a final to remain open. Kissing you feels odd, because I know I'm not allowed to kiss you in public, and then I wake up with a heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. I don't know what's worse: to wake up from dreams like this one or from ones where you hold my face as it meant something to you. You rejected me every time as a cancer treatment, and, yes, every cloud has a silver lining, because every treatment is made of poison. I don't care how sick I can get near you; you are still the best treatment ever. Until you can accept the fact you are in love with someone who doesn't need you, you are lying to yourself, which is the most terrible sin you could ever commit. Last summer I had long hair, and we were easily mistaken for two friends who gone out together to have some fun. Having no chance to kiss you in public was described by society as fun when having no chance to say 'I love you' without being treated as a loony was described be society as normal. So, I cut off my hair and got used to being mistaken for a boy in a queue and public transport. And, still, I continued accepting 'No' from you, and I collected them in a little box I bought on the garage sale, and I hide it under my bed. I hoped that they would get out of the box at night and choke me to death. They didn't. I felt trapped among those declines, and I couldn't fight back. I was a lame wizard, and if your reject became my boggart, I didn't know the right spell to stop them from drowning me in my sadness. I wrote you a love letter, but, like a true coward, I never sent it. I burned it to ashes, so incomplete, so insufficient, so imperfect, and I want everything between us to be perfect, even if it meant to stop feeding street cats on my way back from work. But you choose to burn all of this. Set the fire and watch it eating everything like darkness eats the light at the end of the day.
What are you going to do, wretched heap of ashes?


@музыка: Somewhere Only We Know by Keane

@настроение: Every single one's got a story to tell, everyone knows about it from the Queen of England to the hounds of hell.

@темы: spoken word poetry, добро пожаловать на дно, литературщина, ноа купил себе маяк и остался там жить