This clinical touch is so sterile and yet tender
that I left there all hurt and alone.
This is almost like a death sentence.
I will either die from hating myself or forget everything.

The banality of this makes me sick.
This stupid body thing makes me sick.
This repetition.
My shamed silence and discreet oblivion.

Another healing woman. They impress me with their goodness and motherly warmth. I feel cold and useless beside them.

I had a terrible nightmare. Kissing L’s face, but feeling something’s wrong. His laughing mouth, distorted and sneering. Suddenly I remember: this is the wrong mouth and I start to cry. I have lost his mouth and his eyes and his face and I have lost him altogether and this is monstruous.

This fear of loss is something I don’t understand. It comes gradually and once it’s there, it’s too late. I try to peel it off but it’s very sticky. The only way to be free is to keep the coldness inside. I think I will go completely mad. That would be nice. Days of lonely whiteness in a nice cell. Phantasizing away on heavy-bosomed nurses that come to put me to sleep. I have read this somewhere.


Sit here,
so I may write
you into a poem
and make you

Kamand Kojouri

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