MECHANICAL

Simultaneously
I hug my loneliness and offer my body to you.
The need to have your hand on my face
is so overwhelming,
my eyes are begging you to

hit me,
wipe my tears,
touch my cheek while you look away.

Anything,
as long as I get the physical expression of what you call
a lustful attention.
The minute I wake up,
I want to replicate the fantasies in my head,
thinking that if I act long enough,
my life will become a pool of petal-filled happiness.
Pretty as a snowflake
and cold as a thousand of them,
I learn lessons of life
the hard way.
One step forward and three back –
that’s the pace of the mechanical love.
Poisoned with apathy,
I stare at pictures of myself,
while my fingers are busy picking cogs
out of my favourite clock.
Time becomes irrelevant,
when your life is inked with misfortune.

– Chatty Owl –

SPLIT IN TWO

I remember the odour
of your leather
while deafening German sounds
were slowly killing me
with a desire
to never stop kissing you.
I remember the scent
of your embraces,
they felt like you
were borrowing my life
for some freak show.
Years later,
I’m here again,
in the sweet spot
of square one –
same name,
different letters,
and yet another indescribable feeling
of loss,
just in reverse this time.
I looked up to you
so much,
it started to feel
like a hungover cocktail
of hot and cold.
Consumed,
more than by any other experience
in the past,
I finally overdosed.
On you.
And it seemed like a such good decision.

– Chatty Owl –

MOTHS

That new feeling
of opening my eyes
and wanting to •not• die.

I silence my needs
with my own hand,
as if wanting to feel
what it is like
to feel them drip
between my fingers.

I’m drunk
on your ruptured love,
and I’m sober
because of the lack of mine.

Months and months
I spent watching
moths
eat me from the inside.
Holes in my words
were making more holes in them,
and I was deteriorating
from within.
I still feel
the sting of your words
and
the taste of my own ones,
stuck in my throat.

Salty.
Like the smell of the sea.

I constantly look for you(r)
replacement,
I substitute this strong feeling
with a physical need.

You know,
I would kiss
every man in this world,
if it meant
I would feel at least half
of
what it was to be with you –
imaginary moments.

My days became a ghost town,
where I walk alone,
thinking about those split seconds
when I gave myself to you,
and didn’t even dare to think
I’d be eaten alive.

– Chatty Owl –

Impurity 

Bright peachy walls that 

guarded my youthful birdiness once –

I still remember reasons 

why green was my favourite colour,

and how I played keys

while looking at instructions,

and how I disliked the melted river

of milk chocolate on my tongue…

as if trying to rebel

against the recipe 

of how to be a child.

Leather-bound coins 

and little front pockets

were my weekly reminders 

that I’m still breathing.

Together with stains 

on my maroon clothes 

that I carefully inspected

with my fingers.

I never managed to wash 

that 

one 

stain 

off.

I drifted 

between poverty of feelings 

and the need to find compassion.

I gullibly trusted my intuition 

that sometimes 

just failed me –

like an exam I didn’t care to study for.

Always drifting,

always trying to find 

that perfect spot in life,

and make it my best friend.

That only one.

There were bars on my window

when I tried to breathe in 

the winter air,

and I still remember the smell

of the morning snow, 

mixed with metal,

while

watching others 

enjoying the freedom of coldness. 

So I created mine indoors. 

Freezing my heart with indifference 

and preserving the purity 

of the iron untouchability. 

Alone was my middle name,

a symphony written for one. 

Nobody liked me,

yet everybody loved me. 

They still do. 

It’s time for that girl to come back.

– Chatty Owl –

MISPLACED INSTRUCTIONS

No, this is not for you.
It’s not for him either.
This one is for
my-
self.
Getting words out from me is
art.
I part
my lips,
but I don’t part with my secrets freely.
An open conversation with me
is like slitting fish –
difficult to grasp,
difficult to maintain,
yet
you still can’t resist to get your hands
dirty.
High
on the sight of a bleeding sun,
I count all those moments
that made me think
low
of you.
Little acts of kindness
were like magnetic light –
intoxicating,
yet it resembled that sensation you get
when you stumble in the dark,
trying to find a familiar object.
An enigmatic quest
of lost surroundings.
This.
This moment right now.
I want you to ask me,
if this is for you.
I want to stare at you in reply
and mutedly nod.
And I want the movement of my head
to be the answer that I’m lying.

– Chatty Owl –

THE BLACK HORSE

I’ve cut the moon open,
so I could see you,
enveloped in a white cloth of light
from a leaking sky.
A premonition of you as the black horse
was right in front of my eyes –
an alluring distraction,
that turned out to be as annoying
as an itchy paper cut.

The feeling
of a fog-wet grass around my ankles
reminds me
of your shy attempts to hug me,
wishing it will spark the fire between us,
but
I remember feeling lukewarm already.
Just from the thought of it…

Apprehensively,
you make one step back,
then forward –
a zigzag of intercrossing intercourse,
that always tasted better in reverse.
Resentfully unsure,
you blend into a thick fog,
giving me that content sense of relief.

Don’t waste your imagination on me,
my tolerance is never coming back.

– Chatty Owl –