2013. november 25., hétfő

Kim Visda: For Lack Of A Better Poem

The seventh page of my journal is missing,
savagely ripped out after a successful
attempt at describing your body with overused
metaphors: Broken ribcages. Falling asleep
inside the dip of your collarbones. Slivers
of light cutting through the cracks between
your individual vertebrae. It’s all been said
before and to use them again would be an
insult because your eyes are not pools of
ocean. Your lips are not flower beds and
you are not a temple. I could not capture you
even if the words were written in my own
blood because this skin can only hold so
much. Because I can no longer look at you
without burning. You are too painful for poetry
and too big for language. You are far too many
things I don’t know how to write about.

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