dolend door doolhoven dwalen
de lettergrepen die haar lippen ontglipten
die -
tussen de spleetjes van haar tanden doorsuisden
en zacht haar stille kreten van hoop weergalmen
terwijl de kat zoete woorden over verhalen van
duizenden jaren lispelt

en zodra het kaartenhuis
op de achtergrond
breekt

is ze niet meer in haar wonderland.

i’ve spent thirteen hours without a shower and spiders are weaving their webs in my ribcage. laying eggs in the crooked grooves of my chalk bones.

calcium calcium calcium

i’ll name the baby spiders every single word that pops into my head as the tv screen flickers flickers flickers but never dies out.

my heart cries
heart – ren – ding
heart – break – ing

‘someone please

takeme
holdme
keepme’

in a shrieking voice unwarily keeping me awake until the neighbors come knocking on my door telling me to shut the pestiferous organ up forfuckssake.
discovery channel got me fascinated and my drink is far from finished.

volta

the buttons of the remote control have left imprints on my left cheek like one of those temporary tattoos you used to like as a child. a reminder of television being my friend all night long until it couldn’t stand the dark and finally died died died die death – oh that’s right, i’m missing my heart now.
to my left i have my cell phone with a new message

” i managed to capture it. it had been knocking on my window for about three hours and i promise you it is safe now “

scroll down.

” i’ll come over around 2, okaydear? i’ll ducktape it back between your lungs where it should be “

en wijst zijn glans af

immers zij is stralender

en de hemel is verliefd

op haar en heeft haar

dromen met punaises op

het blauwe doek geprikt.

ze vraagt zich af waarom ze

kleurrijker is dan de stad

met de grauwe stenen, straten

en glimlachen en de hemel

zingt haar woorden door

de regen en draagt haar in

zijn schoot over de wereld

ze heeft lief en schildert

met haar vulpen en spint

terwijl de hemel jaloers

toeziet, maar dan vervolgens

haar dromen weghaalt en ze

aan de regenboog schenkt

haar dromen zijn zoveel meer waard dan enkel blauw en grijs.

we plan on destroying the

world as i cuddle your right

shoulder and compare our

skin tones.

‘you’re caramel. i’m winter.’ i whisper

‘i hate winter’ he tells me ‘napoleon lost a war in the snow. we can’t destroy the world in winter. it just doesn’t happen.’

ii.

‘i’m like ice.’

‘cream’ he adds ‘with chocolate sprinkles’

he gently strokes the freckles on my nose and underneath my eyes

‘that’s rotten skin’ i tell him ‘i’m dying.’

‘don’t die because of winter.’

i tell him i’m dying because of gunfire in a storm.

i tell him i’m dying because of soldiers collapsing.

i tell him i’m dying because of napoleon shouting orders.

not because of winter.

‘i don’t care.

just don’t die.’

iii.

don’t.

don’t.

don’t.

‘please.’

iv.

‘let’s fill the refrigerator with snowballs,

ice sculptures (swans we chopped the wings

off first are the most gorgeous ones) and

the south pole.

that will be our gunfire.’

he just laughs and his cheeks are pink and mine are frozen and dead.

v.

i ask him why he bears with winter.

‘to see you melt by the end of it.

you’ll be spring.’

remember when you told me you

wanted your name to be something

‘coldfrozendead’?

paris must be gorgeous covered in

snow and I should visit you soon.

cities cannot be dead nor frozen and

coats and burning houses almost kill the cold.

x

dear Julie

when I come to paris you’ll probably

be waiting for me on the pavement

with your chocolate hair tucked behind

your ears and melted over the curves

of your shoulders

you’ll probably be carrying white lilies

in your bag.

x

dear Julie

I still hope you haven’t dyed your hair

a different shade of brown, but it’s like

that time you threw all your childhood

pictures in the campfire on the beach

‘it can’t be helped’ you said and your

white dress turned to ashes as the sea

carried your tears.

maybe your hair is already as black as your ash-eyes.

x

dear Julie

say ‘hi’ to the old you for me, will you?

tell her i’d like for her to be waiting for

me on a french pavement with

sunflowers in her bag, a chocolate covered

mouth and honey eyes to kill the cold.

you used to paint me pictures of my biggest dreams and i could touch the sky. i accidentally ripped on up when i got mad for the fourth time today. it was the one with the endless road with me walking on it and all the hearts dancing in the dark sky, as if they were stars.

i’m so sorry.

i’m so sorry.

i’m so terribly fucking sorry.

x

dear grandpa,

you never knew how many tears i’ve cried when you asked me what my name was, when i had been your little angel for fifteen years. i hold memories close and you smiled and asked how the weather was.

you would do the same thing the next week. and the one after that.

i kept telling you different names, knowing you wouldn’t remember them anyway. i told you the sun was shining and you believed me instead of your own mind when you looked through the glass.

x

dear grandpa,

you kept painting the same pictures of endless roads but no one there to walk them. they told you it was marvellous even though it wasn’t. but you smiled and painted another. i thought they were gorgeous.

x

dear grandpa,

maybe i’ll visit you with christmas and write how much i loved you and that the weather is still sunny in the snow (if there will be any)

p.s.

i think i’m too scared to visit your grave. forgive me please.

she asks for glue to put back together the lost pieces of her inner self that she has lost somewhere along the way. i found some of them and i secretly keep them in a small dusty bottle underneath my bed where no-one can find it. it’s just that i ran out of glue the last time i tried to save someone and it sold out in all of the stores

maybe tomorrow i will draw a rising sun on my window

with her blood and watch as the drops sooth the glass

and the snow outside will form silhouettes with

little pebbles as eyes and fake blizzard smiles

or maybe the snow will melt everything together and her sun will rise again.

je inspireert me maar ik weet niet of dat goed of slecht is. sorry.

prinsen snappen je zonder dat ze hoeven te vragen wat er is. ze schreeuwen nooit en gooien nooit met deuren. prinsen lachen altijd en hebben altijd oplossingen voor problemen. ze weten altijd precies te zeggen wat je wil horen, zonder dat ze het uit hun hoofd leren.

jij zegt dat je niet bang bent voor spinnen, maar dat je het alleen maar vieze beesten vind en ik noem je harteloos. jij zegt dat je je verslapen had vanmorgen en geen tijd had om je haar goed te doen en maar aantrok wat er op de grond lag van gisteren, de week ervoor of de eeuwigheid daarvoor. je lacht als ik val, maar helpt me dan weer overeind – dan moet je wel eerst je sigaret in de asbak leggen. je zegt dat je me soms niet snapt als ik mezelf ook niet snap (maar dat zeg ik dan natuurlijk niet) en soms lig je nachten wakker en blijf je een hele dag opgesloten in je kamer zitten.

maar ik heb een pratende kikker altijd al leuker gevonden dan een prins.

en kleine hartjes in de stralen

ik tekende blaadjes die nooit af zouden vallen

hoe koud het ook was

ik tekende houterige mismaakte poppetjes

die nooit dood konden gaan

(stiekem waren ze superhelden en papa’s

want papa’s kunnen alles)

ik tekende paars gras want in mijn

hoofd klopte nooit iets

en de handen van mijn poppetjes pasten nooit in elkaar