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Who needs life when there's a wound - to dig in the wound, move around the wound, caress the wound, meet other people's wounds, compare wounds, enjoy the wound, smoke with the wound, drink with the wound, tell jokes to the wound.


Say wound, wound, wound, and feel how it becomes its own thing, with a first name and second name. You're not alone anymore.


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I love you.


I want you to be dying, sick with an incurable disease, to suffer excruciating pains.


Only me in the whole world would have the cure - you'll become addicted to me, you won't have any choice.


"To die slowly, a whole life, I don't want life after death" - you'd tell me.



I feel empty today, the kind of emptiness which can't talk, can't do nothing , can't even breath.


You light up one joint with another, we play hunger games, parked for forty years in front of locked doors knowing this time there won't be any reprieve. You peel the skin from your feet, leaving red marks everywhere, and although I try to avoid it, I simply can't not to follow them after you, days of hell, moments of happiness - you tell me: is it worth it?




My first mistake as a dead person was trying to live.

A beginners' mistake.

A mistake by a crazy woman with lava burning inside her, going up and down 31 floors in order to find a location for the pain and the silence.

Out in the heat, during the working day.

Up and down. Running like she hasn't run from fourth grade. Searching.

Looking at herself in the security cameras and understanding why the list of psychiatrists is in her handbag.

If you'd have asked, I'd draw you a map of the country based on the sizes of public toilets in each building and town.


enter the room.

Take your clothes off, fold them neatly and put them on the chair by the entrance, near the door, as close as possible to it.

Take the broom, the one your feet dreamt about last night.

Clean. Clean as good as you can.

The contrast between the cleanliness of the floor and the filth you are is important. Extremely important.

Lie on the floor. There's no point trying to cool the lava, no point expecting that.

I will definitely not punch you,

I'll paint you with pastels, writing my name on the contours of your bluish veins,

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Yesterday a smell of acetone filled the street


and I felt how I love you both,


You, who know I'm dead


And you, who's trying to kill me on an hourly basis.


Both of you undress me and see me the way I am,


only the other way round.


One reads the cover,


the other keeps rubbing lemon juice over the letters,


both of you make me accurate yet redundant.


The three of us are one; but distinct, totally different - through our great similarity.


I will not be attracted to any of you, since you stand in front of me holding mirrors.


I will try to love you more so that I can love me less.



These days, those years when we haven't talked to each other, when you've punished me and yourself by locking your jaws in a scorching accusation over what you do to your marriage. Your incompleteness is a dark stain growing slowly in front of my eyes, a black hole, a shark of emptiness tearing pieces off me, I feel like scratching my skin over walls and branches to get rid of its scream - please touch me.


You tell your brain: enough, go somewhere else; Ritalin, alcohol, something else - just to stop waiting.




If the world has two ends, I'm now at that other end, twice a week, when we manage it between her life and mine, I perform jaw-releasing and arse-muscle-relaxation for her, and she takes it all in. She sucks me moment you'd get away from me, turning your gaze from me for just a second.