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    beforehand: i like to use words out of their context.

    She walks with nails under her feet, and she stabs people with her smile, because she never really wanted to (you know) live, and her oh-so-pretty face is just a pale reflection of someone she once used to be; they named her Lilith, long before she fell, and her lipstick-covered lips (red) kissed faces and she held hands (never scratching them with her nails, carefully stroking the wrinkeled skin of old man and women and the peachy skin on young girl's cheeks) and her big, blue eyes cried so many tears; and the serpent bit the fruit, she never dared touching it, but we, we did, and she had to held everything, she had to bend to let us rush forward onto the new promising decade, and she just stood there, following us creatures with her eyes, but did not move, just stared and breathed, slowly turning her head, and her beauty faded, blood rushing out of her mouth, and she was dry, inside, craving for water - but only swallowing dust.


    For her, some parts of her body still remained strange objects, attached pieces of flesh and muscle, limbs, whose movement she did not connect with the unscious order of her brain to, for example, lift a leg, or sway one hand in a nonchalant gesture; she just felt embodied all the time, restless, the unendurably weight of her flesh crushing her soul, that, no matter how many times she wished to wake up just feeling light and airy and having nothing left of her body, only being a soul, thinking and acting, living, without the limitations that her body gave her, stayed inside this jar, this jar of her soul that she couldn’t get out.
    When she touched her body, on purpose or by accident, she always felt a sudden rush of confusion, disgust, maybe fascination, and drew back her hand, as if she had touched something hot that might burn the tips of her fingers, and shame made her blush as if she had done something forbidden, but, however, she did it again, softly stroking over the palm of her hand, over her arm, watching the little soft hairs on it standing up, shivering when she stroke her hair back, touching her cheeks, but nonetheless trying not to contact her skin when she undressed, which was, honestly, impossible - and sometimes she laid awake at night, resting her hand on her naked belly, breating in and breathing out, watching her belly filling with charred air and trying to suffocate as long as possible because she kind of liked the feeling she got when her belly almost vanished when it was empty, leaving a sink between her hipbones.


    She sits in front of me, in the second row. Her hair falls in auburn ringlets over her thin shoulders (the ends, dried out, sparkle in the morning sun): bones cut through her pale flesh and the faded yellow cotton of her blouse. She barely speaks, never raises her hand in class; she always, always, remains the stoic heroine who hands in fairytale-stories and refuses to read them out, loud. Her voice is a hush, a breathy whisper as she says "I'd rather not". Her resistance impresses me, her arcane purity fascinates me, creates the esuriant hunger in me to read her notes, to suck her words out of her skin as she scribbles in her cryptic handwriting, fast, incipient worlds on creased paper. When I found one of her sheets in the trash, ink-stained, I saw it as an excerpt of her soul, tucked it inside my folder, read it again and again- but never understood what she meant with the swirl of words she tossed together. I sometimes find myself thinking that she used to be a mermaid, who left the sea to be with her boy, but was abandoned and is now forlorn in our world that she fails to understand; and it seems such a beautiful, sad story to me that reminds me of sitting on my mothers lap, of warm blankets and tea, and of feeling the sorrows of love for the first time in my life, asking "why can't the little mermaid be happy? why can't she?"; I like to imagine that she is the mermaid of my childhood, the girl I always wanted to be happy and safe, laughing, not crying, I wanted to hug her, to hug her and hold her, but my mother said "you can't hug fictional characters, honey." and so I watch her, asking myself what she thinks, how she feels, staring at the back of her head, counting the freckles on her nose, and never, never, dare to speak to her. The day she is gone, I try to convince myself that she went back to the sea.


    Please, tell me,
    will there be something to look forward to?
    A cigarette, on the street, a stranger, begging for some money, I stare at the sky, I see the cliffs of clouds piercing the ice-blue sky, slashing it open, ripping it to pieces; a chorus shimmers through the air, i try not to listen to voices, breaths and screams, my imagination choking their mouths with sugar-dust, until i only hear whispers in the hazy air of summer, the fireflies swimming, dead, on the lake, heads staring up to the sky, underneath the surface: only black. - Swollen tongue, tasting like silver mixed with cocaine, tipping against my lips, technicolor lipstick in black-white, coat of lonliness over my shoulders, the touch of death against my hands, collapsing, lying, living. Ugly. Sisters kiss their brothers: I kiss strangers, ask them their name, tasting the salt off their lips and forget them like you forget the swift brush of fingers on your hair, leaving fragments of myself behind me on the sheets: lace, wood, grass; I kiss schoolgirls, suck their fingertips, and they taste like catching each other on carousels on misty autumn-days, and sometimes sprinkled frosted cupcakes; our eyelashes are long, our palms small- we are wolfs playing a masquerade, dripping blood from our teeth, our eyes are empty, grey, we are flickering lights against the city's surface - we are the vampyres of utopia, sucking the life out of our future, leaving a collapsed world behind. I am drifting apart, the miracle lost its meaning, my ghost is pretty, but forlorn, my mother has no name, and nature, my father, god, abandoned me and left me behind in the big, big city, sparkling. Water tastes like turpentine, my pulsing blood is stuck, since the spindle broke I can not sleep anymore and my hair grows on, my ringlets touch the ground, the candle burns, burns, burns, a sullen flame in between the darkness, and they scream "sugar! sugar! sugar!" and I try to remember sugar, but I can't, because it turned over and vanished in my throat, hush, I recovered the past, but I can not face the future, swallow, wallow, kick and scream, hide underneath my blanket, scared, incredibly scared. The coffee stained my eyes, they are brown now, and I polish my teeth until they are white because I do not want others to see my black bile. The crowd seems to be pleased of my commitment, but honestly, I am only a castaway, floating through the streets, not trying to reclaim my wonderland back, only wishing for time, enchanted by numbers. And shuddering, I embrace the ink, my hand trembling, my eyes aching, the gun on the table, the knife near the bathtub, the pills on the table. I put ribbons in my hair, I take my honey-breath with me, and my scarlet lips, and my hollow eyes, and hide the needles in my arms under white lace. I am the goodness of Yesterday, creating sobs and sugar, and I am a September-fairy – my veins filled with poison. I live and I call it a “scheduled suicide”.


    One morning: she sat up, staring at the sky. Cumulated in her head were strange intertwined thoughts – like stalks, rising up to the mist of dewy mornings. Her bare shoulders engrave the threadbare silken dress that spills in her lap. An undeceasing silence flaps through the air like blue butterflies captured in a golden net.
    In her chest: a fluttering mass of muscle.

    The stars assemble on the strands of her hair. On the table lies an old brush, nearby an old painting drawn by clumsy fingers (like little children draw). In the midst of the chamber lies a single shoe: it is of a red that resembles the colour of desiccated blood.
    An empty bowl sits across the room. She stares at it, her eyes; refusing to blink, ceasing to see.

    She stands up, approaching the door. Stops, waiting. The door is white like a fresh sheet of linen and has a golden handle. She hesitates to touch the handle: there could be poison on it.

    The last jerks of a dying tree outside the glass.
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