Рина Јанкуловска: полноќни драфтови на една уличарка // confessions of a hoodrat
Прочитајте ја првата двојазична литературна манџа на Рина Јанкуловска: поезија – манифест на сите современи вештерки.
i sustain my heart like an anthill rebuilds after devastating rains,
each part of me a hundred times stronger than itself.
burrow deeper when disaster strikes; ensure your own survival –
a puddle the size of oceans is nothing
when you are many working as one.
the colony survives. i let every wave carry me away
until i am tired of floating, and each time i find my way back to shore.
nothing is ever lost, and every rose-tinted peach-streaked horizon that hurts your soul
has an ending, with solid ground to stand on,
and the sand piles always reach their crumbling heads to the sky once more.
each edifice the architect of its own downfall,
each body hurtling senselessly to its own decay.
we break, and rot, and rebuild to protect.
i fall again, i rise again, i play along with the siren call of death,
i seek the nightmares that drown me in saltwater, swirling in the depths,
i hug marble floors and porcelain bowls and hearts
carved out of the blackest stones, i chase
honey-throated thrills and smoking burning hills
and each time i snap back like a rubber band;
speeding, breaking, curling in on myself.
and each time what’s broken is birthed again
out of trampled carcass-black ashes.
the colony confidently orchestrates a rain dance
with no center, no end, just exoskeleton limbs tapping out into eternity,
and we make our own hurricanes of pain to twirl within.
the circle spins. i make my own misery to revel in.
a parade of tears down every street, restructuring my heartbeat
until it bleeds, breaks out, burns down, caves in.
u n s t u c k.
and then i live. and then i build. and then i float.
and then i rise. rise again taller, rise again better
carrying forever my own weight, composed of many
spinning inward, pushing through, always moving, always circling,
upwards is the only way out.
…it’ll come to you
there is always going to be someone who matters more than you.
repeat it, waking and in sleep, until it’s muscle memory,
until your tongue remembers, until your silly heart remembers,
until your soft naïve mind wraps itself around it and believes it.
you prefer it that way, it’s much better, there is less responsibility
in being a shady rest stop on the highway to the right girl,
less expectations, less constrictions,
less everything, really, no, just the crumbs, that’s alright, thanks
and you stand steady when you remember your place;
when you keep to it, immovable, unchangeable, you’re not
“the other woman” if you’re not a woman at all,
just a fuckdoll made of marble, heart unpierceable, unbreakable,
cold stone on a short leash
don’t forget yourself. step off your pillar and
stone becomes soft quivering flesh,
goosebumps, moans breaking into cries, and
sculptures aren’t meant to weep in the arms of their unwilling creators
remember your place and your legs are steady;
forget yourself and you begin to slip, stumble, stone and sinew giving out
slip, stumble and break your neck
trying to bend yourself into something else
“there is always going to be someone who matters more than you”,
your mouth whispers to itself in a blood-choked breath
always, always, always, repeat, remember. keep your step steady
don’t trip over the shards of your own hope.
we know not what we may be
i drop from the treetops into the damp grass
limbs sprawled, glorious, like a soft peach bruised upon its fall
my lungs heave thrashing waves of saltwater
until my mouth opens to unleash it
the water seeps from me in dirty waves
and there is rain, now, black and sticky, yet the clouds disperse
each raindrop bruising my pale and fuzzy skin until
the bright orange beneath it rots
and i grow darker, i grow outside myself
i see myself in death, slick and battered, delicate
bugs and bubbles chew away at my soft translucent flesh
ophelia, legless; flowers decaying on her pale breast
fingers hanging off our mouths, teeth always bared and clenching down
pressing seafoam on our tongues instead of kisses
the water embraces us; fickle, restless, slipping out of all your traps
salt and bone pillars in a dead girls temple
giving us peace, giving us solace and friendship at last
our bodies decompose to set us free
there’s no sky when you’re twelve feet under water and we don’t miss it,
waves still dance with our ivory fingers, but we’re not there anymore
don’t come looking; we don’t want to be found
if we want you, we’ll call out with brand new voices,
songs granted by death
making us loud and clear and honest in the face of living silence
screaming out despite the hands you tried to clasp so hard
around our throats