30

I would like a completely fresh start.

A white wall, empty house, empty head.

I want to rip my life from it's roots and plant it to a strange ground.

It is your home now, I'd say and smile, this is where you belong.

I used to dream of studying in oxford.

That was my favorite dream.

I'm pretty sure that i won't get there at any point but it's still one of my favorite dreams.

But now it's it because i could start with a clean start.

A blank page. 

28

The thing with ballerinas is that there are little things that make them really lovely.
Like offering chocolate to their friends in the dressing room, or the way they blabber.
The way their light blue underwear shows a bit under their black suits or the way their fingers dance in their hair as if they were dancers, each ten of them.

27

Mum braided my hair once in Paris -

in the way that it formed a clean halo of hair around my head and I smiled to the mirror while she was trying to figure out how to do it.

After she was finished she looked me for a moment, smiled and said:

"It's nice to see your face again."

I was puzzled, I never have my bangs on my eyes - it's always up or somehow in my bun.

How is it possible that she hasn't seen my face?

The answer hit me yesterday.

In Paris I was truly happy, happier than I had been in months and maybe I glowed in the way that the black veil of sadness had been removed 

26

I've felt all, hands, lately.
This doesn't make sense but imagine that you are standing in a group where you know no one and not saying anything and you don't know what to do with your hands.
You fiddle with them, cross them on your chest, put them in your pockets but it all feels somehow painful in your shoulders so you let them drop and hang on your sides.
I am feeling awfully like those hands.
I don't know what to do with myself.

25

I'm not feeling that good.
I don't know what I'm going to do with myself
I don't feel like sleeping today. At all. But escaping from the window to a summer dream seems like a bad decision after realizing how big the fall must be.
And if I fall, there is a someone who needs to dance alone.

24

I must stop saying that I am lost
when i know exactly where I am
I just don't want to find my way back

23

I'm sad.

In about hundred different ways.

Sad like the gray ocean, sad like a lonely lighthouse keeper. Sad like a nightingale in a cage - sad like you, when you see a beatiful red fox in the side of a highway,
not moving.

21

It's been a while since I've written anything. Or at least anything good.
I didn't have any writing classes this semester - we don't write anything in English and it's been so long since I've had any writing classes in my native language.
And the thing is that I actually really miss my writing teacher. She encouraged (encourages?) me to write and she is about the only person who has seen my writing.
We don't count my friends that I show my writing assignments if they show me theirs because i get only comments like I didn't get it or It was ok after they are done with them. Not that I say anything else. They keep telling me that I'm a good writer and I should make a career out of it but then again what makes them think so? All my writing for school is messed up and weird and I write it under pressure and leave out all the good bits that could light the gunpowder on fire. That gunpowder is the reason why I don't show my writing to my family. And they wouldn't respect it at all.

But that teacher on other hand?
She hasn't seen the best of it but keeps reminding me to write, giving me good grades on my assignments (even tho they are a bit shit), asking about going on writing classes outside school.

I haven't written anything in ages and I feel like I'm letting her down a bit.
Then again why should I write when other teachers (read: group-student-counselor-who-is-a-bit-shit) keep telling me that I will not be a writer?

20

I can't believe that I really miss her.

She was bad to me.

She caused me so much fear, so much hate towards myself and the feeling of me not being enough, not being good at all.

We had a silent competition of problems. 

Who has the biggest problems?

Whose life is the worst?

Most of the time she was the winner.

She always had to win.

But then again, I used to share everything with her; my secrets, my sorrows, funny pictures I saw on facebook. 

She was the only person who touched me, 

held my hand or hugged me when she saw me.

That rarely happens now.

She was like sweet poison.

A wasp dressed as a butterfly.

She caused me so much shit, and I still miss her.

19

I'm my happiest when the sun is hanging low,
casting its heavy whisky light to every peace of ivory skin showing beneath my armor
Pressing angel kisses to the bridge of my nose and to my cheeks that are pushed up with a smile,
caressing my shoulders with a warm hand and
And the thing is, that the happiness doesn't bubble inside me, it swells and stays.

14

Around here you need to know when to drop:
Your hand, when no one is shaking it
Your gaze, when someone confronts it
The subject, when it gets too heavy

Everything, when it all feels too much

12

Lips.
Kiss swollen, even though
the only time
they have touched other lips
it was my
mother that woke me up
with a small peck.

10

I think I might have fallen.

Yes.

In love, I mean. With you, I mean.

With the curve of your lips when they stretch to a smile. With your laugh and your voice when you call my name. 

With your blond hair and light skin and the way your ideas make no sense at all or the way they make after all. 

But I am on the other side of the window, looking from outside to inside with my face pressed to the glass and i wish you'd notice

or put flowers to your hair even once

6

Snow.
The whole ugly world drowning in white, gasping for life before dropping the leaves. It's been like this for few months, the cold turns my breath straight to ice and I still refuse to close my jacket.
Dark comes at 5 pm but before the light leaves completely the world turns to blue for awhile. There is a scientific reason for it - somehow the dark dribbles only blue light through it. So many artists and poets inspired by it, and then there is me. Standing on top of a hill and thinking "was that it?"

don't mind me

"I can't stop thinking about grandpas hand," my mother says quietly. "I was holding it and now I just keep seeing it, he's hand."
I close my eyes and turn my face away. I don't do feelings, not even when someone dies.