This is no love poem

This is no love poem;
I wrote this
to remind myself that this heart of mine
has not been aching since forever,
to remind myself that your leaving
has not taken love along its side.

How often you have told me
that I was too young to love as much as I pretended
and how long I tried to convince you
that the older I got, the less I could remember the taste of sweetness upon your lips,
the less I remembered the fear of losing
and the fear of forever.

You see; today I woke up
drenched in dreams of things that never were mine;
hollow heart and no thoughts at all,
as if all we had lived through had been merely dreams.

Some people abuse drugs,
I abused love;
so much so that I became addicted to your recognition,
I craved your arms;
first only at night,
then every second of my days.

If only I had been weak enough to give up,
maybe I’d be lying next to other rotting bodies;
to addicts of all-kinds,
until the sickness of love had reduced my bones to dust.

This is no love poem,
but I wish it was.

Jehona Thaqi© (selfportrait)

Advertisements

Shame

image

Women,
eyes fixed upon the ground,
tongues tied, mouths shut,
restless in their spirits, yet noiseless to the world.

Women,
obliged to feel shame at any occasion in their lives,
as if it was part of their very existence.

Men,
loud voices, unfiltered speech,
everything so cruel, so raw,
their eyes never lowered,
too proud, too powerful.

Men
who never felt shame upon their own skin
but burned women with oppression.

How shameless.

Jehona Thaqi© A poem inspired by Salman Rushdie’s novel ‘Shame’. “Between shame and shamelessness lies the axis upon which we turn; meteorological conditions at both these poles are of the most extreme, ferocious type. Shamelessness, shame: the roots of violence.”

Patience

It was a late night in a quiet city,
the winter-breeze dancing around the façade of our house

which was enlightened by the mellow moon-shine

and covered in freshly fallen snow.

I waited;

the candle-light flickered upon the silverware and wine glasses,

until the candles burned out;

and the light diminished upon a table full of things you loved to eat.

I waited;

sitting on the couch you had bought for us,

wearing the dress you loved,

all black upon my pale skin;

my eyes fixed on the clock,

my ears listening to the silence that seemed so violent within this small house,

my hands pressed upon my thighs,

agressively; in order to stay awake.

I waited;

you said you would be there,

as you did so often;

and when you could not make it,

you laughed, charmingly;

sometimes we make mistakes

you would say and kiss me on my forehead

and I would laugh, too;

the table still arranged,

it is alright, love.

I waited; 

but you did not come

until the first sun-rays shone through the curtains,

you laughed, and kissed me on my forehead,

the dress still upon my pale skin,

I laughed, too,

and left.

I had waited

too long.

Jehona Thaqi© (my drawing of Nera Z., you can follow her on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/nera.z/ )

Nothing

Her porcelain skin and rosé colored cheeks
shone brightly in the dazzeling light of a full moon’s night,
her deep brown hair dancing through the wind
and saving the snowflakes from falling to the white carpet underneath her feet.

She was a woman of vivid dreams and far lands,
if only she could see herself through less deceitful eyes than hers;
if only she knew the very impact of her tears upon this earth
then she would walk slowly upon the freshly fallen snow
and conquer more than the ground could ever hold.

Instead she ran home;
her soft heart drowning in a sea of self-destruction and pain,
she slammed the doors behind her; tremendously sorry for her still breathing lungs,
and while her hands began to shake in agony of losing life
or maybe of living,
her cries softened and she fell silent again.

This breath-taking woman
had everything
but saw nothing.

Jehona Thaqi© [my drawing of Lana del Rey]

Dear II

I apologize for the scars upon your skin;
the bruises on your legs make you look clumsy,

I wonder how hard you had to hit

for them to look like small galaxies trying to hide the pain.

I feel bad for your small hands and bleeding knuckles,

but sometimes I can hear the walls cry and shake in fear,

and when your fists meet the concrete

this home weeps for hours.

I wonder how long you will hide your wrists;

for the scars underneath your shirt have led me to your heart,

they were the maps to your soul;

but you are ashamed of the wars you have lost

and you forget that there were victories, too.

I cry when I see you lay still upon the ground,

lifeless and silent;

I wish I could talk to you and say that you are enough,

but I have used up my words for the wrong people;

I wish I could tell you that I love you and all of your scars

but how do I say it, if I have lost my tongue.

Dear self,

I apologize for the scars upon your body;

but whatever you do,

keep breathing

and I’ll breathe with you.

Jehona Thaqi©

Mind-murder

My mind keeps wandering 

to places with safety signals,

to places where others have fallen

to places where white flowers rest

upon dead bodies.

My mind keeps asking me the same questions,

of when it will get better,

of when I will find the right words,

of when we will buy white flowers,

of when white flowers will be bought for us.

My mind keeps crying,

at night, when my body is too tired of staying awake,

at night, when my soul has been drenched in sorrow,

at night, when my heart beats too loud within this empty house.

My mind keeps complaining

about the flowers I forgot to water

and the dishes that still wait in the sink,

about the clothes I had to wash 

and the room that has become a mess.

My mind keeps talking

to the body which crawls out of bed in the morning,

to the swollen eyes underneath the make-up,

to the shaking hands that hold coffee-cups. 

My mind keeps invading

my privacy,

and consuming

my capacity to think,
so, today I bought white roses,

and placed them within my mind.

Suddenly, it became silent, all around.

Jehona Thaqi©

Reflection II

I glance at the reflection of myself,

my hair a big mess,

curling at the beginning of my shoulders,

my shoulders crooked,

frowning upon my body,

my body held by two hands,

as if in danger to fall against the ground,

hands holding my stomach,

I can feel the hunger grow,

my stomach filled with coffee and pills,

pills upon my desk,

waiting for the pain to get back.

I watch myself hold on to this body,

to the only breathing creature that still forgives my wrongs,

I watch the mess I have become,

and my hair curling upon my shoulders.

The reflection drowned in tears of selfdestruction,

a pale face, dark and hollow eyes,

small lips trying to speak,

but reflections do not talk,

they merely watch this body fall,

they watch those hands pull closer to its body,

they watch this body tremble.

My hair, a big mess, curling at the beginning of my shoulders,

I think,

whether or not to cut it.

Jehona Thaqi©