A balloon in my stomach,
sloshing in tangy goop.
Someone pressing on a
week old bruise,
mocking. Frustrated tears
running down my taught cheekbones
like a perspiring runner. An
iron fist squeezing my innards, not caring
how it makes me dry retch.
Then numbness.
I don't care anymore,
or so I tell myself.
A mistake, you will I grow from.
What is love after all?
Why do I, 'we', or life really mean? And why does that meaning matter?
Argh!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem