I keep your letter sealed
until it is too old
to wish to read it

that it could have been otherwise:
pronounced what happened
in me

I don't think what you think
of me
I only think you are
in me

I don't see what you see
in me
I only see you
growing in me

but I keep that
to myself

With my sisters I imitated
mama and her friends
By paying attention to everything

from eyebrow to footstep
every muscle under his cloak
the menu and our clothes

we let Dad, who is king
do his important job

     For so long I'm living
     without friends, without child
     I'm not smoothing out sheets

     for my Achilles, the sensitive
     hero, his divine body
     On our wedding day

     the priest didn't sprinkle holy
     water on me, he besmirched me

          with glue from the golden vessel -
          a foul mix of blood, wine
          honey, and nobody dared

          to look - under the offering table
          next to the raging fire of the funeral
          pyre he kicked me: keep quiet!

          His knife shone, I saw him pull
          at the doe that took my place

Oh, what woman didn't and doesn't
suffer from beautiful girls' dreams
put down by sneaky plans


from which she has escaped half at the utmost?

Working for a house larger
than a couple of beds and a cooker

and for beauty
reconciling you with life

In future, the heirlooms
in the more beautiful home

of your children, but their children
shrug their shoulders

Their house is already full
with conveniences, cushions

on cushions, curtains over curtains
devices everywhere and ah

that old stuff, for a while
they show off and play with it

if they have time

You can't see it
in the room, not on the floor
you can't see it anymore

in my sheath, the wound
of his blind attack
it's over, I am

myself, my body
washed, my home recaptured
ready for the fight

with you, whoever you are
you follow, until I release you
until I release myself

it is my bed, my belly
your pleasure has to wait
for what I want

because I didn't want to
not to see, not to feel, not to remember
I wandered over the ceiling

the nothing of nowhere
I was not there, not at home
in this room, on this floor

The sweat in which I wake up with a start
after the waterspout, the howling guy wires
hitting my tissues, cutting them

the wind skidding through shreds of half sail
being at the end of my powers
which are strangled by my thoughts

the fleeing madness
in which I perished
my sobbing SOS

save my soul, darn the holes
I am tired, too tired to think
and too confused to be strong

too weak to hope, too afraid
to let go - I will go down
in the depth of the whirl, I

won't get off with a fright -
short of breath I scream
for grace

I manage, you manage, we
manage preferably for ourselves
We do like attention

but I am not in the mood when
things are not going well for me
although I would like to support

a friend when things are
not going well for her
It is complicated

to be happy
and to change
to be happy

or not to change
but to think differently
about how I am

doing and managing and whether
we can do that together
more often

The doctors jump
from the symptoms to my youth
Nothing is without cause and cohesion
is interesting

Adrenals can poison you
The twigs at the front are shrinking
there are holes in the network
the cells become islands

and you are adrift
thrown back and forth
on the waves of your emotions -
concentration is of short duration

The present passes chaotically
and the past is unreachably
waiting in the below deck
for repair of the connections

I'm so afraid
and I lash out
Yes, I must
I must relax

A musician, the handsome dream
of a year ago, still in my head
lying beside me after an easy lay

in the smell of his breath
and the noose of his hand
around my neck

My love snores with tears
in his eyes, and vodka
in his heart

I get up and go
leave this hell of mine
wishing he would be a tiger

knowing I am a panther
and if I had any stripes
I would wear them with pride

I stayed
to finish work
the corridor is dark

with familiar lights
red and blue, vigilantly
the devices are blinking

It's the last time
I'm leaving, disappointed
I write everything down

and then I tear it up
the evidence
declared unneeded

my tears have dried
I have chosen
to be who I want to be, I

choose to live

Is there a language for
me, who I am?

I want to speak out
otherwise I cannot exist

I refuse to languish
in a corner

the filth

of what happened
not pretend that

nothing has happened
and live around it

around myself, around
the discomfort in me

about the nice experiences
which let the other ones in

the unnameable
things he did

that made me fall
without flying

Toys in the attic
of the house of two mothers
And the ghosts of their daughters

making noise, a murmur and
the hollow laugh of the wind-up clown
when something falls in the dust

The toys have never been used
The kids never wanted to
play with Olivia

That's why she has been fantasizing
for thirty years, about blood and death
among the bushes in the park

Mother is powerless
Only she knows the secret
and no one is safe

They say I live in a fantasy
they say I need to see my doctor
they say I am troubled

I let myself go
in the stream, with the stream
I sense
the bed, the banks

My fingertips brush the rocks
and the crocodiles
feel where they crush
at which angles they cut
I know the tension
of their muscles, legs, jaws

and I let them go
in my stream, with my stream
My bed and receding banks
give them the space
of wasted efforts
and squishy spots on their soul

that seeks salvation
in the stream, the great stream
without a bed, without banks
and without direction

He hits me, and she
does not feel the pain
she prefers to side with him

I laugh about it, I know it
the ritual in which I am
just the last in line

Nobody hears it, nobody sees it
Who would help me? he doesn't
shout and he doesn't hit me that hard

Hello Earth, This Is Siera
I am a red devil
do you read me?

Come In, Future
I wish to live and be licked
please lick me dry and cool

Do It Now

It must be me
who stillborn screaming
is locked up for days
in the unreal world
of home and garden

where you set out the chairs
in the grass and the sun is shining
but not giving any warmth
in the parallel reality
of the pill under my tongue

that makes me a ghost
without a body to kill
only with detailed plans
how to do that and finally
get rid of the ghost

The day has overtones
but it breathes heavily in me

I can play with the themes
and bow to the applause

I can sing a counterpart
exhaust me until the evening

but the nights are too short
to recover, I have to

deliberately fling me into
the struggle, whatever comes of it

A day without suffering
is a day wasted

a day of happiness
is heaven on earth

dreamt without eyes and ears
for reality, a spooky day

Daddy's friends like to laugh
and have another beer
to watch me
when I bring it

but today they fall silent
you could be bothered yourself
with a difficult daughter
who posts poems

about sex and the love
of her father and
a distant lover

What is the matter with him
and this interest in my inner self?
Too bad, he does not understand

Only in fantasy can I express
what I need and
what makes me angry

Pain is a border post
sometimes a fence, sometimes a wall
against which I sometimes lean

fearing for my life
I can only sing
for myself, not to drown

in blues, raise my voice
and keep dancing
while I'm not dead

I rather sweat and stink
of misery than do nothing
and long and sigh

sadly, looking around for light days
without pain, the border crossed
or pulled down by my Mojo

We are living in a poor country
since we took it back
and whoever stays must pay

in kind, we take it
very personally, man by man
with violence, we subject

the last woman to our right
to penetrate her like she
and the other foreigners

have, for six generations
penetrated our lives, that's how
we thrust our daggers of hate

in her, she is defenseless
her dogs stay still
in their blood, she too has

to resign herself to her fate
the disgrace of life
and the grace of death

It's nice that you think of me
but fantasy would be too much
I am mine, not yours

when I am alone at home
at the table or in bed, longing
for company or attention

or not, I just eat and sleep
in the creases of the night
ignorant whether the moon is shining

In the morning, I awake
the birds arouse my nerves
and sometimes it rains

I have to pee and urgently
be busy, do not think that
you should brush your teeth

to kiss me and melt
me in your warmth
I'm not that lonely

You are still living in my skin
and in my belly, my cells
still remember everything
as if your spirit has crept into them

I am not safe
sometimes you wake up
under a different name
threatening

to repeat what should never have been
What can I do?
What should I call out?
I know your rumpelstiltskin names
They hurt me

with impotence and panic
for what can happen
I rather am silent about it
with wise, dear people
who see my suffering anyway

The music is calling, celebrate it
with me, with all of us
I challenge you

don't touch me
it's not your concern
why

I rather don't
even want to
know it myself

What I understand of it
is not up for discussion
Don't touch me

the scars are more sensitive
than I can bear
I don't show them

The music is calling
I challenge you
I challenge you

The alarm went off
in my belly, I thought
but it was already blasting

much earlier on my skin
for puzzling danger
Then I would run away

strike out or clench
like an iron clamp
I was a walking fortress

disguised as a girl
longing for contacts
that I could not bear

without necessity
and hard agreements
I still don't want to

be cheated
by understanding and sweet words
my body tolerates nothing

certainly no expectations

Lately, I've been wondering
Will grandpa Don hug me?
Will grandpa John kiss me on the cheek?
Will my sweetie be the first person
to welcome me there?

Quite often I wonder
Why are the days so similar?
Why do people want to live?
Why are children playing?
How many years did I play?

Then I wonder
which photo will remain of me
How old will I be on it?
Is that what will be left of me?
Will I turn in my grave?

I ponder a lot
about the luck I have had
How rich have I become?
Why are our happiness treasures
our happiness measures?

I often wonder
What will I miss?
Who will miss me?
Who will find me?
And who will have regrets?

Are you my exercise
of feeling breath
in my body and feeling it
rise to a storm?

Am I your exercise
of listening, only
asking a question
when I dare not go on

to throw up fragments
of facts and confusion
in fits and starts
of silences

which you undergo
without comfort, without
getting closer, that close
you are already

confident
that I dare to
breathe deeply, cry
and go on

searching
in the dark
discovering
how I can?

Dad blew bubbles
against my belly
and between my legs

Dad woke me up
to pee, and massaged me
inside

     On his calendar
     Dad puts signs
     for the safe times

     I started to smell
     of fear, infected
     by the smell of my sisters

          That invited him
          You can come, it's safe
          we dare not do anything

          or say anything
          we want to cover it up
          But no perfume is strong enough

               I look seriously
               in the mirror
               and I don't see it

               I am praised
               for my beautiful drawings
               of tortured women

I'm waiting, not dressed yet
First, gather courage, a shower
is nice, the rest is a challenge

Cleaning up a bit, do some shopping
maybe, otherwise I'll just sit here
waiting for the appointment

Waiting is getting harder
It gives me too much time
to think about the end

I survived nightwatches
as an object-with-a-wristband
for routine examinations

My life is too short
to worry about side issues
Will you come?

Please come soon, hear me, see me
understand me, I love you
Roger Wilco, I love you too

As if I were old, I bury
friends from the hospital
We who remain take a quick glance
from above

to see what it will look like
when we are carried ourselves
Our aversion is being very much
alive, still wanting so much

I resist, sometimes cry
to keep from dying of despair
Framily catches snatches
and doesn't understand me

The good hours are bittersweet
always over quickly, and
afterwards I fear
they were the last

In the glory days of K-1
nobody could touch me
Life smiled at me

I wasn't a child anymore
I learned to laugh
and I could handle everyone

The galas, watching and being watched
the tough friends, many things to do
The world was mine

The helplessness, the past
no longer mattered
I learned to laugh

     but my strength is gone
     my body often helpless again
     unease makes me drowsy

     everything comes back
     at the wrong moments
     as if it is happening now

     If I don't laugh anymore
     I am dead, or almost
     the world is almost closed

     I learned to laugh
     from loneliness, mama
     I was so alone

There are tents with tubs
and tents with mattresses
for the girls and women

in the middle of the camp
behind the front
where they are buried alive

Buried who they were
Wishing to die
from the pain, out of the hell

of unknown soldiers
who are honoured, for
what they do does not happen

Because it's not allowed, so
they will get the flowers
which are not at the camp

that tomb
of the human dignity
of the snatched women

A woman with a gun
Driven out. Cast out
by her neighbours

because she was killed internally
and could feel nothing
but pain and disgust

and because they too can
no longer believe who she was
at home, in the paradise

before the arrival of the men
who use you cruelly
until they discard you

and impale the broomstick
grandma's cane, their bayonet
or a bullet in you

The woman with the gun
wants to sleep again, to feel
the warmth of the sun again

She wants to defend
a new paradise, being awake
from the nightmare

of inhumanity
and free herself from the cage
of her broken body

Mama is angry, she's letting me
I just should
be big enough
Her mummy time is over

since the divorce
No new beginning yet
I just should
be kind to her

indulge her and help her
until it's getting better
I just should
not mind the voices

that spit at me
with swear words
and cover my thoughts
I just should

listen to her and see
how I get rid of it
Is there anyone
who is not deaf to me?

I just should fix it myself
and if I can do that, mama
you can succeed as well
in being my mama again

Mama woke me up
She embraced me sobbing and
stumbled down the stairs
in my arms, and I

stumbled down the stairs
in her arms, to daddy
in the kitchen, arms around each other
we were crying

but I had to go back, see
how I was
breathless on my bed
still warm

as if I was asleep, oh
you are thirteen
don't go, stay
here with me

Paramedics arrived
They put me in a bag
and carried me away
leaving me behind

I can think what I want
it doesn't numb me
But not to feel sorrow
would be worse

I can think what I want
That they were just words
But they were deadly
anyway

I can think what I want
Let myself explode
to know nothing more
but I know anyway

I can think what I want
Not to be the honey
he slurps up
but it happens anyway

and it's not the kiss
it seems to be
and certainly not the kiss
of my dreams

You cannot sleep?
It will come
It's the clock genes

Just come over here
and lie down with me
Close to each other
You are so sweet

It tied knots in me
that are not quite undone yet
I was a saviour, an angel

not yet used
to her body, a child
who does know heaven
but not yet earth

It recurred
Anger grew inside me
Powerless aversion

It recurred
And with others
I lost my wings
A worthless angel

What is home, everyone knows
from experience or lack
or both, as I do

And still
I know what I missed
when I think about it

Not often, at last
I got my home
And still

I am the saviour, the angel
I have practised to be
from childhood

I hesitate at the old Christmas card
with me as a little angel, back then
when I got a cat as a present

Stars on my white dress
gilt-edged wings
and a halo

But unable
to definitely redeem
my family, their desires

Wounded, I crashed
bipolar between heaven and earth
between love and failure

I am laid down for you
on a table made up
as a bridal bed

My head turned away
from you in the cup
of my hands

I feel you everywhere
you haven't touched me yet
with meaningless lust

You will kiss my belly
and bump the fruit
not knowing what you are doing

You won't be the man
who is going to protect our lives
from unworthiness

Rustling lanes, winding roads
the rippling on the bank
of the path along the river

wherever the land is not buried
under city, I walk my days
in the smell of rotting

Mushrooms, spider webs
birds in the undergrowth
and dearest to me are the wild
flowers, thistles, chicory
pink anemones and poppies

I admire the gaunt, the sallow
the beauty under
the beauty of
the scars, the life
they pass on

My hand wants to know
what I, what they
want, do, and to
understand what is happening

to my body, and what
it has to do with me

My soul also wants to
know in order to know
and to laugh about it
when I think I know something

Laugh relievingly

Think about why

others do what they do
and then, what hold
my hand has
to help

I think ahead
behind my clouds
the sun shines
the sun smiles

Coins to sow unity
and a symbol, and a flag
and a castle too

that makes the guardians untouchable
ruthless to today's wolves
and in times of peace also
to innocent lambs

to sanctify the Sign
as priests of an old covenant
of the power that disciplines the herd

with providence and the stench
of black smoke
from the burnt offering
next to the sacrifices on the spit

on which they feast
and the Sign they hold
free of stains

I pick up plants from the street and slow down
Caring with soil, scissors and cotton wool
I slow down and cook, for him, and with him
everything else slows down. I don't do much

At first wilfully, daily exercises
and meditation, my body asked for it
Attention

Esther covered my skin, he caresses
it, he catches my navel lint
Childish games, silly jokes
Giggling like a lama

Cuddling, energy
from the sun behind my clouds
Peace of on and off buttons

The slower sucking and spitting
of the ganglia in my head
No more overdrive
All neural pathways know it

The long way back
to my skin's old threshold
limits, replacing the alarm
with a notification
without crisis consultation

and more
than the sensation
of smells and tastes
and more
than the satisfaction
of strength and fatigue

and more
than laughing muscles to feel
there is contact
in between thinking
Placing a lot at a distance
to have space close by

to be balanced
and to love myself
to accept touches
uninhibited, not creeping
like the scent of wisteria

An upper floor apartment, a square
where I am safe, having nothing
I can be robbed from, with internet
and a sofa bed

it is the way of life

of my friends-of:
come, don't do anything stupid
then you will be fine again
the storm will rage out

while you are in our square

Maybe I'll find a way
for myself, an area outside
where I find satisfaction
and yes, what you say

a calm inside