tawdry hound
Sometimes I wonder, am I really good?
I mean, I... I try to be,
every day like a damn robot,
without many options of course
but I still breathe.... Not that I want that
I wake up at five in the morning,
make the bed,
as if that could organize something inside me.
Cold water hits my face in the shower,
and I tell myself it’s just exhaustion.
I pass by mirrors
without looking too long,
just in case I see too much.
The coffee goes cold on the table,
like the things I don’t say.
There’s a knot in my throat—
the kind you tie in a shoelace
and never quite know how to undo.
But I’m a man… I’ll be okay.
People ask if everything’s fine,
and I answer too quickly—
like someone shutting a door
before anyone can walk in.
Because if they do…
they’ll see.
I don’t want them to see me
sitting on the bathroom floor,
hands on my head,
on an ordinary day.
Or maybe staring into nothing,
thinking about something
that doesn’t even exist anymore,
failing myself again
and again
until I fit into some small,
immature kind of awareness.
In the end…
I’m a man… I’ll be okay.
At night, silence is a powerful enemy.
It doesn’t scream, doesn’t break anything—
it just stays there,
pressed against my chest,
like someone lying on me,
but without any of the warmth.
Silence is a problem
because…
it gives me space to remember.
And I hate remembering.
Really—
anything at all.
I don’t like remembering.
I’m my own worst enemy,
so I guess silence
is just the messenger.
When I think rest has finally come,
I lie down,
staring at the ceiling—
I don’t turn off the lights.
The dull yellow
of my room
fits all of this too well.
I stay there,
asking questions with no answers.
“What if?”
I hate that sentence.
I breathe calmly,
but I promise you—
it’s all chaos inside.
It’s just that…
I’m a man… I’ll be okay.
But there are days
when breathing feels like a task,
when existing takes effort,
when remembering hurts—
but forgetting does too.
And I stand in the middle
of crossfire
with no reaction,
because I don’t even know
how to react to bullets
that don’t exist.
So I think again:
I’m a man… I’ll be okay.
I repeat it,
like someone trying to convince
their own body
not to collapse.
Does it matter?
I don’t know.
I repeat it anyway.
Maybe because crying
would mean admitting…
and admitting
would mean falling.
So I hold it in.
I swallow it.
I keep going.
I’m a man…
I’ll be okay.
…right?
hoary hatch
trim ridge
tranquil smelt
halcyon prawn
near tundra
