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I. Am. Powerful.
I can make her think
Of everything except herself,
Of crossing streets,
Of playing with scissors without a reasonable objective,
Of staying away from people because she has a train wreck in her head.
I can make her feel
How everything is unrelated to her,
The guilt over people she can no longer meet
Or the things she can never have again;
How everything she touches, attaches to, can, and will,
Untangle any moment she decides to focus on it.
I can make her move
On the bed, she cannot make,
In the room, she hates to be in,
In a corridor where everyone has their own business,
And she, inexistent.
Unreliable.
I can make her smile – poster style.
She practices in front of the mirror or before she gets out of bed.
I am puzzled at how she poses in front of the camera,
As if I am not here. As if, I. Do. Not. Exist.
I can make her laugh,
But you would not notice the difference.
The sound is empty. Pleading.
I have taken the life out of her laugh.
I have taken, the life out of her laugh.
I can make her cry,
The depth of pain reflected on her pillowcase.
The screams that her sweaters and jackets
Have caught a hundred times,
The insecurities that only I can decode.
I. Am. Powerful.
She is not brave enough!
Until…
How dare her?
Does she want to stand against me?
Many times, she fought with me,
Pushed me away, and shrugged me off her shoulders.
As if, she can get rid of me that easy!
Looking back, she has changed.
I drowned the music.
I stole her handwriting.
I made her feel that ball pens are five kilograms,
Weighing heavier the longer she carries one.
I blurred the colors she once loved.
I had control over her.
Now, I don’t know what she’s doing.
Keep your friends close,
But your enemies, closer.
She attempts
To befriend me,
To hug me,
To console me,
To change my form.
I may have crept into areas of her life,
But her voice I still cannot shake,
Her values, I still cannot break,
Her hope, I still cannot fake.
And this is how we…
Coexist.