Poem
“You go out… Like every morning
you try to fill a hole in your heart
created by a nightmare last night…
while you wear a plastic smile
that you distribute to the faces of passersby
In an attempt to appear as a happy man…
You put in your pocket the thirty-third disappointment
hiding it well so that one doesn’t accidentally fall out
six… seven hours… eight hours…
You return home
stand in front of your mirror / take off your skin
There is nothing but the clothes you used to wrap your bones
And the rest is just emptiness
It is a terrible thing that you … are not you.”
