24 december 2020


The damp,
hanging still above the hills,
is full of ghosts.

This morning
all is broken,
but them – They

were the exceptions.
They offered me a bed,
which I constantly declined, thinking

they might mean to make me cry.

But here I am,
after their so-many-attempts:

refusing one after another,
now speckled in the ditch with
mud and all the smoke of their belonging

My ribs are heavy.
I try to breathe,

but smog takes way, way, way more space
than every

My capacity seemed endless, once.
I’ve had my wild mind spin like horses without heads
on an ever going carroussel

and questioned:

Is this a test?
Am I supposed to come to terms with dust

and particles?
To have this heavy mist in me, me
tying myself to strings of

such a great complexity,
just to keep their company

I doze – Diluted, but yet full of envy
and confused I
try to sleep, while

in the meantime, between failures,
I become one
with the enemy.

The ditch seems deeper since I’m in here.
Cramps of fear
and anger

strangle my belly.
I hold the air and beg them not
to leave.

Choked on my own breath, tangled up
and scared,
only the troubled sky is left.

It’s them: the lastings,
roaming through my skull.

They do just as ghosts do –
they haven’t quite meant anything.

– Malon