Too much

I talked too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my existence was bound to my words
and to the little spaces
between breathing and speaking.

I laughed too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if I was a puppet of happiness
and I danced to the rythm
of everyone’s well-being.

I cried too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my tears were the only proof of a crying heart,
and the way I grasped for air
was my way to say sorry.

But sometimes,
silence became the only language
I knew how to speak.
Sometimes, when you were far,
I forgot that there were words to say,
and stories to laugh at,
and songs to cry to.

Sometimes my heart ached
for you to call
and say that something was wrong.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Advertisements

Someone

image

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©

Tranquil hours

Processed with VSCOcam with t1 preset

 

Tranquil hours coverd in warm clothes
tasteful coffee and great stories.

Reading expands the horizon of our minds,
that is what my father told me
when I was too small to comprehend the word horizon,
when the meaning was too far from my world.

Today I caught my father reading a book,
the one he has read at least ten times,
the one that makes him be so still and peaceful.
I asked him if the story did not bore him now,
after so many times going through the same pages.

His horizon must be infinte,
I thought, while touching all the books within our little home,
wondering if he still remembers these stories,
or if they have faded just like the letters inside.

Tranquil hours, filled with warmth that touches my heart.
I have read Fitzgerald again, today.
My father smiled, a victorious smile,
stories will never bore you, if they are written well,
each time you read them, you will fall in love with new words.

“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.”

And I read it again,
and again,
and again.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Broken

image

My hands keep shaking
whenever they hold yours.
You say this wouldn’t be easy
if I refuse to stay calm.

I stare at the ground
whenever I tell you why trying has been all I ever did.
You say you would trust me
but you can’t trust my heart.

The scars upon my wrists
are hidden underneath layers of
selfpity and shame.
You say you have never seen
wrists as small and fragile as these.
You say they are unable to hold something as heavy as love.
Love can not be broken, you say.

I say
do not define me by my brokenness.
Even if my heart lies in pieces
I will still love you wholly.

Jehona Thaqi©, I am more than my scars

A play of words

image

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©