shy eyes;lost mind

thoughtless

there’s something

wrong with the

way my knees

touch, my neck

strains just to 

glimpse you.

you told me i do

not need to be

an artist or a 

goddess, just me.

smelling like cigarettes,

fidgeting, nervous hands

silent silent mouth

wide-eyed, i end up cutting

my skin on the fingers of

trees.

my organs were

replaced with black

lilies.

and he spoke to me

his voice full of

ocean and smells

like nighttime grass.

rained on, splashed.

i wish to be not me, but someone else entirely.

bruised girls are best.
the lovely broken ones. 

Dear whispers,

have you ever listened to starlight? I can hear her sing of things I’d never dream of.

She told me she woke up to the most beautiful shade of bruised purple against stark white in the sunset splattered sky, I just thought you should know. I miss watching her with you.

Love, Silence

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Dear Journal (1939)

I miss the birds.. ever since the scary men with shiny iron sticks came, things have changed. I suddenly found myself surrounded by brick walls, iron fences, fierce dogs, and stale food. It is December of 1939;somehow, it seems colder than usual.

Mamusia has told me we are in a dual concentration camp known as Auschwitz.

Uncle Issac says hardly anyone gets out of here alive, Mamusia shushes him. It is only us three, now. My uncle Isaac, Mamusia, and myself. We were all together at first, somehow my brother Markus and my grandmother Ursula were sent to Bergen-Belsen, or so I’ve heard. I miss my brother Markus. He used to help Mamusia and I bake pastries or read me stories of faraway places, and play with the other kids of our old neighborhood. Now, my only friends and companions are the beady-eyed, hungry rats that are no better off then us. 

Why would they do this?

Mamusia has told me it is because we are ‘Jewish’.

So it is wrong to be Jewish, to be myself?

Mamusia strokes my hair and sings me an old favorite polish lullaby. She tells me i will always be safe as long as she is here.

The birds, the birds..

Mamusia will not stop weeping.

I have heard from an older gossipy woman that the einsatzgruppen had taken Mamusia’s older sister simone. I have never met simone; the einsatzgruppen terrify me, much more than those gas containers, or those huge smoking buildings that people never come out of.

Waking up early, i realized i had grown familiar with the scent of burning skin and gunpowder. I would have never believed one could grow used to such awful smells, oh how i was wrong. Seeing the distraught and sad look in my uncle’s eyes, i know he misses Engelbrecht, our ghetto, a place that i still think of as our home. Uncle Isaac had fallen for a woman there, well shaped, puckered peach lips, eyes that shone like crushed starlight and the warmest glow, and a laugh that could make any anger or fear vanish from sight. Her name was Luncia, she was wonderful.

Unfortunately, one day two nazis with coal black eyes and lead hands had taken her away.

I watched helplessly as Luncia cried and begged, even pleaded with them. She was stuffed in with other women in the back of an army car and driven to their deaths. I would like to strongly believe that Luncia is still alive out there. Somewhere. However, the December chill and snow have taken all, if any, hope away.

Mamusia gives me most of her food, stale bread and cold soup.

She tells me i need food to grow strong for when we leave this dreadful place.

I cry.

Mamusia is very thin; her bones stick out from places that were once pretty.

Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes sunken in, but her smile is what envelopes me in safety and warmth. Uncle Isaac has passed away early this morning. His honeyed eyes have stayed shut, I cried. My small body wouldn’t stop shaking no matter how many times Mamusia sang to me. I hate them, all of them.

Uncle Isaac never did anything. He used to always talk about opening a pastry shop where Markus and I could work when we were older. The whole family would join in to help it open and flourish. Uncle Isaac’s dream is mine as well. Even if our family is split up now, we will rejoin soon, I am sure of it. Mamusia and I may not have Aryan blood, but i am prod to be jewish. No matter how weak my body gets, how much my body yearns to fall asleep like my Uncle’s, I will prove the Nazis, the germans, everyone, wrong. I will make it out of here with Mamusia and we will find Markus…

I awoke in the middle of the night to something that resembles thunder, however, it was the dead of winter and no rain has ever come. Standing on the tips of my toes, I peered out to gaze at a sea of fire not too far off. Because of this, I realized for the first time what war actually meant. Artillery shells broke up in the sky peppering the night like spilled red paint, encouraging the flames. Turning, I called out to Mamusia to tell her of what was going on.

Calling again, I was suddenly overcome with the fear of turning away from the window, like i would be swallowed by flames if I did. Calling for Mamusia a third time, I summoned the courage and turned around only to rest on Mamusia’s empty bed.

Fear quickly turned to worry. 

I called and called, I searched her bed, over and over, tearing the coarse sheets off and coming to the realization that

she.. 

was..

not..

there..

Tears filled my eyes and I couldn’t stop them, I wouldn’t.

My mother, my safety, my hope.. gone. I lay on the concrete, it was cold against my skin but i hardly noticed. Something in me died that night, Something that could never be brought back. Mamusia’s name is Emilie; I always thought it was pretty, like her.

She always called me her ptaszek, her little bird.

I am alone now, and i miss the birds..

restless

Nothing’s on my mind, really
Or maybe everything is
You keep your life rhythm through those beating drumsticks
Scream chaotic whispers in electric waves
Heart lit up in wildfire by the arsonist crowd,
As the crowd grows thicker
Thinner grows that trust of ours

In the electric energy hanging over our heads in this wild chaos,
I make out the silhouette of your body frame 

The beat of the stilettos on the glass floor, casting laughter drowned in wine, moving pictures shouting from smooth clear surfaces. 

He kept his rhythm, theories of life, to himself. For there is no space left in the world and in man’s mind for thoughts of complexity and philosophical remarks; the world was built on numbers, consumes numbers, and every crook every turn every bolt and every nail was a number

They said, here’s something abstract, 
It’s worth ten houses, this painting of listless strokes
And they gave you white paper 
[For your breathtaking brush strokes, your abstruse words… ]

But the whitewashed walls are replicating cancer cells 
Whitewashed thought.

Your conversation better be formatted, from introduction to conclusion,
Throw in two or three thesis, 
Captivate your conversationalist with facts and dull anecdotes that have
Been told over and over again. 

The blue is turning gray, so are the compassionate people of yesterday
The thin collect of fairy glitter under the wooden shelf once held the afternoon tea cakes is now in the corners of my lungs,
Century old dust

The mixed sound of children’s laughter and cars beeping finally get to me this time, the world I’ve just been, in my mind, whilst all others captivated to the real world 

laugh and say goodbye and convince themselves that they are really right and their accomplishments soaring high and their relationships more stable than ever. 

I don’t make sense because I speak in fragments 
and you’ve always managed your words into points and order. 

So I’ve just been thinking, day dreaming, sinking in this own world of mine,
Nothing is really on my mind, or maybe everything is,

You see my listless countenance and call me philosophical, venturesome, deep, and a black mystery unsolved,
But I’m no Sherlock Holmes and 
All I wanted was to think. 
drowning in golden wine.

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