Promises

Do we still
forgive
if we have not forgotten?

All the shattered promises
that left your lips too often,
each time the same expression;
you are sorry, you say –
and the next time you promise
it will not happen again.

The words lie upon your tongue,
ready to leave your mouth whenever required,
those empty promises
that I still try to believe in.

You touch my face,
your rough hands caressing my pale skin,
each time the same expression;
you are sorry, you say –
and it will not happen again,
but your hands keep moving upon my skin; shamelessly.

So tell me,

Do we still
forgive
if we can not forget?

Jehona Thaqi©

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Ashes

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My skin smells of smoke
reminding me of how they lit my dreams to flames
and let them burn to ashes.

They have dragged my soul through mud
drenching every inch of it with pain,
while their evil laughter echoed throughout my body.

I hear their voices in dreams of mine,
talking quietly to me upon how I was never enough,
comparing me to rotten flowers in mid october.

Back then, when they lit my dreams to flames,
I was too small to comprehend their satanic words,
but today I can still smell the scent of my burned skin.

You see, the ashes have been the fertilizer for the flower I have become,
it made me grow in depth, with heavy roots and vivid leaves.
But there are days where I feel like drowning,
nights in which I can still hear their sad voices,
moments of despair and fear.

It is in moments like these
in which I float in the darkest of my memories
like a lost pearl in the wide and bobbing sea.

But I am still shining.

Jehona Thaqi ©

End

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I wish you had held me
just as you promised,
at the end of the day
you said
you will hold me
and cover my scars
at the end of the day
you said
you will love me
and kiss me goodnight
at the end of the day
you said
you will be mine.

You said
at the end of the day
it would not matter.

But the days
keep ending.

Jehona Thaqi© the poem I could not begin nor end

Someone

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She needed someone
to hold her small body
all crawled up
in the corner of her room;
the cold floor
pressed against her soft skin,
in this temporary life,
she needed to be promised eternity.

She needed someone
to hold her hands
while she held tight to the cigarette;
and in agony of breaking it,
she pressed it against her cherry lips,
inhaled the pain
and exhaled her dull memories
of being nothing
but toxic.

She needed someone
to kiss her scars and blisters,
for she was told that time will pass
and will make her forget,
but she remembered all the promises
which have never been held;
time made scars fade
but the memories remained
crammed inside her heart.

She needed someone
to make her forget the mess she was;
but she held herself
and like a broken warrior she fought
wars within her mind.

Jehona Thaqi©

Sin

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She had a heart purer than the deepest corner of the sea,
with a spirit just as dark and unexplored,
lurking through the empty streets somewhere within the rising of the moon
and the falling of dew drops.

Her porcelain skin, stained with painful beauty,
shone through each night,
brighter than the northern star.
While her hands cried for justice,
and her eyes screamed for love,
it was her voice which went unheared.

She wanted to tell you that she was not what you believed,
that the words you call her have marked her skin,
that for her the word tiger was no synonym for strenght,
while looking at her tiger wrists.

And when she cried at night,
and tossed and turned, with a heavy heart and tired soul;
you slept in peace upon the cussion of sin.

May you sleep well, then, my friend.

Jehona Thaqi © notes, fragments

Untitled IV

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You asked me
why I never said the words I wrote,
why my poems were as beautiful and loud as a sweet summer’s night,
but my words often too soft to be heard.

I gave you my poetry.
It was all I had within my tongue-tied world.

There was nothing greater I could offer,
as I had given up on everything
despite my writings to you.
Even now, sometimes,
when I hear my own voice,
I feel trapped within a body that is not mine.
I will write to you again,
until my fingers bleed and you realize
that my written words are my soul unspoken.

Jehona Thaqi©

To my friend A. I.

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My friend and I were sitting on the veranda of a coffeehouse in a small alley of our town. We did not talk much that evening, instead we enjoyed every sip of our coffees. Suddenly she lowered her head and asked, with a solid voice but shaking hands, if I believed in love. If I believed that mankind was predestined to love. Or if we learn to love, just as we learn to speak. I had never asked myself if love was a magical thing or if it was something we had been taught to do by history.

I smiled, still thinking of an answer and asking myself if it really did matter. Would it change anything if it was one or the other? What would the point be of knowing where love came from? I leaned back and stared at the sky, how it slowly changed its colour from blue to pink to almost black. It was a cold November night, but a lovely and quiet atmosphere made my body feel safe.

“Maybe I am too naïve, but I think that love comes naturally.”, I said, still watching the skies, refusing to look at her deep brown eyes, “Love has always been with us. It might has changed over the years, with all the movies and books that make us homesick for warm bodies and soft beating hearts. But it must have been here all the time. How else could you explain us falling in love with views and flowers, scents and feelings?”.

She nodded, watching me with an utmost sadness. Even though I avoided looking at her I knew how she felt. Love could be cruel, maybe not love itself, but the way it makes you vulnerable. The way it sometimes makes you dependent on a certain person who can so easily crush everything you ever needed. “Are there people who can not love?”, she asked, with the same voice.

Her voice was one of these rare things you come across in your life if you are lucky enough. It made you go soft inside, even though it was not too feminine, but mellow and tragically lovely to listen to. I knew that her heart was aching at the very moment, but her voice continued being the same solid voice you could listen to all day. No stuttering, no broken words, but a melody as warm as the sound of spring.

“No”, I said, laughing ironically. “We sometimes love too little, or too much. We love the wrong things, seldomly the right. But we all do love. We are all different, so love has to come in different shapes and colours.”. She nodded again, as if my words did not matter at all, as if every other answer would have been the same. I felt dizzy and my vision was blurry, maybe because of all the different light bulbes of this small coffeehouse. How do you explain love to someone who’s heart has been torn by too many people? The lights shone green and yellow and red, I was tired and cold, and tremendously sorry for not being good with words.

She smiled, as if she had read my mind and wanted to say that it is okay. I knew it was not okay. I knew that heartbreak leaves footprints upon the walls of your soul, even love is unable to cover up. But maybe this is the beautiful part. Our broken pieces transform each of us into art. And when we get old, may those days come, we will look back and say we did it. With the right, or the wrong dose of love.

Jehona Thaqi© I would heal you if I could

A play of words

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I used to hide
within

a paragraph
or two.

In between letters,
words,
books,
bookshelves,
somewhere only people
with the intention of caressing every
page of mine would put their hands on.

I didn’t want to become

a paragraph
or two.

I have always been much more.
An unfinished story,
with the capacity of becoming a whole

library

formed of

a paragraph
or two.

Jehona Thaqi©