Hypothesis: He asks, do I ever think about disappearing.

Conclusion: I stand with my head under the tap while the sink slowly fills with water listening to the grotesque noises of prayers unheard, the paper people, those who never had a chance to exist in the first place.

What I need: their hearts, like flesh lilies bobbing upon red mud,
a steaming white-hot waterfall of wanting
and something to help me swim.

“It is ungrateful to drown in shallow waters,” I say,

and he laughs, a soft chime dancing upon his chapped lips,
Another judgement, another bullet to digest
I clench my teeth.
The possessive part of me demands;
I have to be somebody
I have to be a body
I don’t know how to do without breathing it in
I’m either too much or nothing at all,
bullet or bomb-belt,
damn-you or damn-me.
I’m a god but I don’t believe in me.
A crusader without a cause.
I look into the ever-shifting face of the metamorphosis
and I wonder
if being
used to mean more.

Henna Sjöblom

1 Comment

David Redpath · February 26, 2018 at 2:42 am

An existential waterfall.
Eventually water rises
from the ocean
of life’s celestial cycle

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