I find myself just staring
at the rivers flowing by.
It’s true —
on the backs that left me,
there were never my knife wounds.
To forget some events,
some memories,
some people,
I’d need something like Alzheimer’s disease.
Because the wounds are too deep.
In a corner of a room
with the lights switched off,
it almost feels right
to sit together with depression.
I feel a kind of pity
for the spider webs
blown away by my sighs.
As tomorrow’s hopes keep rotting,
I will go on wasting myself.
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