Friday 30 November 2012 photo 11/12
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När jag skriver på engelska blir det alltid sådär, men jaja, jag lär mig väl tillslut.
Someone tells me my sister is learning to wear her body
like a winter parka,
something she can hide in
until the cold passes.
At summer camp she braided her blonde hair into a noose
and tried to hang herself.
But this isn’t a story about my sister;
this is a story about the girl who was afraid of the monsters
under her bed at age five
until she realized every monster under the bed
checks under its own before falling asleep.
We nail the things we love by their hands onto crosses
we’ve designed solely for ourselves.
But this isn’t a crucifiction;
this is a vintage car that’s running out of gas
one second at a time.
And someone once told me that my sister
got down on her knees
and prayed in the bathtub
like God was something worth believing in.
Then she pulled the plug and let the water spiral
down the drain
like her heart.
But this isn’t about my sister; this is about
the ghosts we conjure out of the dark for ourselves
because we’re too afraid to sleep alone.
Annons