For as long as I can remember,
my life has been something
inflicted upon me rather than
something I've chosen to live.
This room smells of sick animals.
I struggle to scratch hieroglyphs
expressing my hideous descent
into perceived sanity.
Down and down my heart goes,
wriggling out of a hole in
the sole of my left shoe.
I nod my head, clap my hands,
make a joyful noise.
I stare at the sun until my eyes
are cinders.
I can never claim the title
of victim until I identify exactly
what the victor has separated from me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There are no victims.