Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

No, he didn't treat you like a friend, Because he neither cared for you nor took care of you when your heart bled. He didn't treat you like a lover, Because, like a werewolf, he turned into human form only in the sunlight, and he escaped before you could see, in its entirety, the beast that you had spent the night with. He didn't treat you like a God, Because he neither feared you, nor respected you. He didn't even try to disprove your very being. It was not even worth it. He was the one you called "home," honey I'm home, home sweet home, A home with a welcome mat stained with reminders that you are not his home, but his backyard, an old tire swing just for fun. You love thy neighbour, and forgive thy enemy, and bleed when his heart bleeds, But he does not exist. Opposite to a god, he fears himself, and disrespects himself, He is homeless, for fear of getting caught in the honey at the door, when he says, honey I'm home! Like a poor ...

Freezing rain, on the street, on the benches like slippery sheets, on the roofs of small houses and skyscrapers alike, the world is a fridge, and we are the chopped meat that has two months to go until thawed. I lay there on a bench, unsheltered under the freezing rain, the chill of it sticking to my skin (I couldn’t get up in fear of developing an open wound) and it sucked me in. Not a sock on my foot, not a handkerchief on my leg, I just lay there nude, exposed like a snail without a shell (you could kill me with salt). My spine (a bone) pressing against the bench of stone, little bruises cropping up all across my body like hickeys from a pixie. The toes of my feet and the tips of my fingers bright red (I hoped the cardinals wouldn’t mistake them for berries). I looked at my chest and saw that it compressed to remind myself that I was breathing, although the ribs poked out so far out that I was scared they’d collapse like a rusted old dome. I could feel the ice clumps...