"Owls are not what they seem"
You hate me
for the mistakes of my grandfather
that I carry in my
mighty DNA
of numbers,
but this is me,
with my body
and voice,
and the green-ness of my eyes,
talking to you
in a voice of a girl,
poetry of a woman,
and wisdom of a human
that married my grandfather
(that you hate so much),
but you love me,
right?
So don’t judge the book
by it’s blood
-y
stains.
– Chatty Owl –
I was 17
when you bumped into me
and picked me up
like a rotten apple
from the side of the road.
Not fit to eat, but
still juicy,
still with a smell of a fruit,
under your teeth and
on your inquisitive tongue.
You observe me
as I put spells on aluminium spoons,
bending them,
like I bend men to my liking,
making me
not a witch,
but a magician of sorts.
Don’t forget,
the reality is
the invisible infinity
we all fear.
– Chatty Owl –
You say you like me unpredictable
and wet –
like an English summer.
I smile
and watch you
watching me
slipping out
of your favourite shirt.
Your eyes adjust to my body,
soaking in images,
and I know
that
it’s because your biggest fear
is to forget
names and faces.
That’s why I turn around
and
hide away.
Little dandelion parachutes
fly around my hair
while
you breathe in
the scent of my past,
saving those evaporating wishes
as they tickle your mind.
Like your body
tickles my imagination.
You open your mouth
to tell me
that you cherish those days
of my juvenile insecurity,
but my eyes are begging you
to not say anything.
I’m just waiting for your kiss.
– Chatty Owl –
You told me,
that my hands are always cold.
Especially my fingertips.
I blamed it on the weather
and
the foggy air of moody London,
but we both knew,
this is just how I am.
Icy.
You tried
to cunningly defrost my soul
and make my thoughts
all thawed and leaking water,
but
all it did,
was built defences higher
and suddenly
all doors got shut.
A heavy weight of a padlock.
You questioned everything
that popped into your head –
sincerity of my moving lips,
the truthfulness in my eyes,
the husky voice
and my motives.
True or false.
I played with strands of my hair,
to compliment
my misleading nervous answers,
while your orders
got more strict by a second,
creating waves of insecurity.
We played a game,
all back and forth,
tossing each others hearts
into the air.
Sky-high.
In the end,
there were only words left to play with,
so this is why I write.
Like this.
– Chatty Owl –
Come.
A bit closer.
Do you remember how you used to toy around
with my fingers
while
I toyed with your heart
and we both blamed the playful moods
and
relationship faux pas?
Jealousy used to leak
like words
out of our mouths
and we soaked them all back
with our brittle lips
and dry kisses
of rehearsed attraction.
Do you remember,
how you didn’t complain
and I didn’t mention
that I notice it?
– Chatty Owl –
