Kada ostanem

Baš volim za rođendan pobjeći

U drugi grad

Nazdraviti s neznancima i slaviti

Još jedno veče kao i svako drugo

Baš volim okretati

Nove stranice

Ostavljati poglavlja


Volim reći kako sam za naš


Kriva ja i to što sam otišla

A otići se moralo jer noge ne znaju da stoje

Volim reći kako bi me sigurno


Da sam ostala

Ma bi sigurno

Da sam ostala

Sigurno bismo imali psa

Gostili prijatelje

Išli na piknike

Da sam ostala

Sigurno bismo zajedno birali tanjure

Išli na more

Ostajali doma petkom uveče

Da sam ostala

Zavoljeo bi me


Okrećem stranicu

Naše poglavlje bez točke

Ostaje nezapisano

A ja ostajem sigurna kako bi zapravo


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Pomeranje zvezda

Ti oceani pa te vatre pa ti svemiri

U čemu sve mogu da se nađu


Nimalo me ne čudi što smo izmišljali

Božanstva za svaku divnu stvar

Čudi me što smo prestali

Pomerila bih zvezde da mogu

Skakutala po njima ko

Po kamenju što izviruje iz potoka




Doskakutala pravo na tvoj prag

Uvek sam najviše voljela

Najveće lekcije


A nikada nisam mogla da naučim

Kako da pustim i


Što onda znači kada ti kažem

Da si me upravo to naučio?

Baš dobro što zvezde ne mogu

Da se pomere

Naše su točno tu gde i treba da budu

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Kako se rađaju majke

Obraz mi je krvav, kao i njene ruke

Od one vaze što ju je bacila na mene i nazvala me kurvom


Želim ju zaključati u vrt koji se prostire kilometrima

Pozvati vjetar i ptice da utišaju njegovu jeku koja joj govori

Da je luda i paranoična


Djevojčice, žao mi je

Dok je rasplitao moje kose zaboravio je tvoje ime

Kada je uhvatio moj struk, zanijekao te


Božanstvo u tebi skupilo se malo, praktično

Da stane u stražnji džep

Njegovih traperica


Pričam ti o danima kada sam bila mlađa od

Prvog puta kada si se ti zaljubila

I čovjeku koji me naučio shvatiti kako

Me ti sada mrziš


Dajem ti ljubav u krhotinama stakla


Jednom sam o sudoper razbila cijeli

Set vinskih čaša

Gledala crno vino kako prlja bijele zidove


Ja nisam znala njeno ime ni

Bi li ona mene tješila da je znala da sam



Djevojčice, žao mi je

Sve tvoje uvrede zabijaju se tupo kao

Noževi u pijesak između nas


Sada ti želim dati svoje ruke, založiti

Svoje grudi i zagrliti

Te kao što nikada nisam njega


Ovako postajemo sestre

Ovako se rađaju majke

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Darling Woman or How to Talk to Jesus

You will look at him like a savior,

Like Jesus.

You will pray for the resurrection,

Pray he can put your trembling bones back together

Like straws of a bird’s nest,

Like ashes of a house burned down to the ground,

Like dust under our squeaking beds.

You will clasp your hands together saying

Lord, please save me

Every time you see him in your apparitions.


He will let you crown his head,

Although his knuckles will bleed

Every time he runs them down your spine.

You will wipe the blood of your dresses

Wash them over and over again

Try to wash out the bad taste he leaves

Every time he leaves.

You cannot wash away the shame.

The shame - like a moist, black crow

Shrieking outside of your window

Every night you try to dream of him.


Darling woman,

Have you forgot how he took an axe

Rammed it into every tree until the whole forest was gone,

Used the wood to light the fire

Under the house he has built you

Out of promises and dreams

As empty now

As your shattered bones

Whose ashes he shoved under his bed

While fucking another woman

At the rooftops of your hopes?


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Prison Mice

I meet her on my third night there. It is around 4 a.m., but in here, you know no one is asleep. White noise gets a whole new meaning here, how it is never silent. But you get used to it, the moans and the sighs, after a while it just seems like winds blowing through the bars of the walls as through the hollows of my ribs. I spent my first night trying to decipher the sounds; are they crying, or masturbating, or ripping their nails off with their own teeth? It doesn’t matter anymore, it is just wind.


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We slide past the parks

Past the gates and the exit signs


Through the boulevards and avenues

Through the promenades and Rivieras


He sings in chatter and speaks in breath

He breathes in fog and breathes out Rome


Holds my hand through dark nights and empty alleyways

When yellow moons anchored in the pavement

Light up the rivers of gray


His traffic lights like beauty marks

Coloring books of both December and May


My steps are oracles

Ecstasies every time I touch his face


My fingers are still learning

Sliding over his every crevice


We talk late at night

When I turn my balcony into a confessional and

My cigarette into a rosary


He tells me stories

The way he talks in breath


I let my heart sink down, through four

Building floors, right into his chest

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After Midnight Jazz

There is a cat screeching outside in the park. A thousand lighters

click in the night, fires start

and die.


There are ten moons following you home tonight. They trail

behind the car, balloons on strings

up high.


There are flowers that breathe only in the dark. A lover walks

home alone, her heels in her hand rubbing against

her thigh.


There are jazz bars that come alive only for the after-after-parties. In sound

proof basements, ten stories down

below, where you can see

the sky.

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The Morning Blues

These streets have not known the sun

And this girl has not known love

She waits under the tilia tree every morning

Right at six


I watch her

Strolling over rooftops

A cigarette in my hand

And me, bound for bed


We talked about love last night

Politics always goes to love

And that one old rag drinking himself to death

A lesson on what happens when you let her get away


She waits still

And the cigarette has burned out

I turn around and head uptown

Let her wait

Love is sweeter when you do not get it back

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Moving In

He cuts me open without anesthesia.

Comes into my house under the moonlight

And waits by my bedside until the sunrise,


He holds a silver dagger and a touch of gold

Makes an incision from the soft at the nape of my neck

Painting red between my breasts

Over my navel and to my other hairline.


He puts all ten fingers inside of me

And opens me up,

Looking for a way to make room for himself,

To make of me a drawer for the things he cannot take home.


He tells me a story of a home

Of a family,

Tells me he is here to stay

Inside of me


And I will never feel lonely.


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The Frida Kahlo Paradox

When Frida Kahlo fell in love with Diego Rivera she had already had her heart broken and had made her peace with a life full of pain awaiting her. The trolley accident she survived as a teenager left her spinal and pelvic bones in shreds that will never come together again, and herself unable to have children, something her soul will never heal from. By the age of twenty, Frida had already experienced love, the loss of a never-existent child, the cage of a body cast, the freedom of a paintbrush in her hand, and the ever-present pain.


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Dida and the Red Pipe

In 1967 my grandmother's father built a house on the outskirts of an old coastline town on Croatian Adriatic. It looked towards the sea and the industrial port some kilometers away, from back when there still was a promising industry in Croatia, back when Croatia was still Yugoslavia. On its right was the brick red railway that has been silent for long before I was born, leading to somewhere North-West in Europe, somewhere better. He was a railway man, my grandmother’s father, taught to respect all things red, although I always remembered him with silver white hair. We called him Dida, a colloquial name for a grandfather, although he was not a grandfather to any of us, and that colloquial expression did not come from our dialectical region. For years I thought that Dida was his actually name, today, that is the only name I remember him by.


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Some Nights

Some nights I hear footsteps in an empty hallway

Some nights I see shadows through the cracks of the doors

Some nights I mourn the dead that have not yet been buried


The dishes are washed and stored

The trash bags are empty

The wine and vodka are safely at the top shelf in the cupboard

The cat is strolling along the furniture

And the clock is racing through the night


I deleted all of the numbers

Locked my fingers into shackles and my mouth into a muzzle

Put up a calendar for a new year

There are dates written in red pen

His birthday, graduation, anniversary, that wedding


What if I forget

And do not spend the day nibbling on my own skin and cigarettes

And that bottle of Absinthe that is always a bad idea


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2.43 am

Write his name on every cigarette in the pack. Smoke the whole pack with a bottle of red wine. Light them up. Watch his name burn and turn to ash between your fingers. Inhale deeply. Feel his name, the smoke, scratch its way through your mouth, your throat, your lungs. Keep it in. Let it degrade you from the inside. Let it kill you, slowly eating out your body. Exhale. Put it out. Let it go. You have let it burn for long enough.

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You say you are a brave man,

Jumping off a cliff into the ocean

Going into a fight to save your brother,

Without even thinking twice.


When I hear your name I hear:

Going, going, going.

Like drips of the morphine in those last hours

When you know the life is so far ahead of you

There is no way you are going to catch it by the ends of its robe

And keep it with you.


The airport queues have never been so short.

The bus isn’t late for the first time in a decade.

I have forgotten how to say goodbyes.

I feel the wooden houses in my stomach crack at the base.

I try to fix them with duct tape,

With a little bit of gum and good riddance.

Home isn’t supposed to be empty rooms filled with howling winds.


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Black to Blond

Tonight I counted every star

At the bottom of my ceiling.

Said the numbers with every rapid breath I took,

So fast I started seeing constellations forming on my floor

While trying so hard not to think of you,

On top of her

Behind her

Pushing her onto the wall,

Hoping so hard it was at least a different wall.


I died my hair black yesterday.

I am afraid of finding her blondes

Between your mattress and pillow.

Afraid of running my fingers over your back

Feeling scars that I didn’t make.


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She Knows You Are Lying

After 43 missed calls

And 10 times more unanswered texts,

I bet you wish I hadn’t stopped writing.

I bet you wish I hadn’t shoved my inspiration under the foundation of an old house,

Stepped on her neck and put a handkerchief down her throat.

I bet now you wish I would stop talking to you,

An empty growing silence that has been screaming into my ear for days,

And instead start spilling onto paper knowing I could never expect an answer.


I stopped writing when I learned about the destruction I never meant to cause,

When I learned of the arrogance in my poems.

My arrogance was just,

Maybe… then…

But hurting the person I love the most never was.


My words have eaten my alive.

So much to say and no one to listen

Will make you howl at the Moon and weep when she does not reply.

What do I do when the Moon stops?

The only thing we ever trusted,

The only thing we could both see at the same time,

The only thing that does not change no matter which continent we are on.

What do I do when she stops

And I keep on spinning?


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Oceans On Fire

I never thought much of the ocean.

It was always too cold for me, too windy,

The ocean was never my thing.

That is,

Until I realised just how beautiful drowning can be.


But breathing for the first time after so long.

It was like you took a scalpel in your right hand,

Made a cross at the bottom of my throat

And I started bleeding,

But I started breathing.


Have you ever felt like rebirthing?

Because tonight your eyes were oceans on fire.

I rose from the ashes like phoenix,

Bathed in your waters

And cried you rivers.


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