How I wish to die

The air has your color

the memory of its own,

repeatable sense to remind

me how hips shared hunger and

joined hands traveled the same path

of untold story.

 

The time tastes after your touch,

after the sound of every stripped

particle, wanting to get lost

in you, collided with the meaning

of existence.

 

And the space collected every drip

skipped from the lip, a tear, a sweat,

scorched on the bathroom floor

fossilized witness of how I wish to

die – curled in you, sigh extant.

Maja S. Todorovic

My poems

My poems are my ideas,

my dreams, my toys,

my stories, my…

the most beautiful.

You can’t destroy a poem.

It can be hidden somewhere in your head,

in little corner where likes to sleep,

until it decides to walk over your lips.

My poems are clouds where I sit and

watch birds fly and sing.

My poems are…

Maja S. Todorovic

*note: this is translation of a poem I wrote when I was 15. It’s been 25 years since then, and I still feel the same about poetry. Strange and beautiful in the same time.

Raw, uncensored

The way I slept naked on the floor;

The way I hid myself from the sun;

The way I ate uncooked food with my bare hands;

The way I flossed my teeth three times a day;

The way I laughed at your stupid jokes;

The way I adored your razor-blade thin smile;

The way your huge hands held me around my waist

is the way I loved you.

And still do.

Maja S. Todorovic

NaPoWriMo day 28: Gone with the rain

It was typical rainy day: grey, wet curtain hid tired steps of people passing by. At the end of the street, just below the tiny slope, every tortuous creek plunged into the porous mouth of the busy, thirsty drain. Water blunged in the rhythm of soft, muffled sobs as young women, with unvoiced stone face, continued to cradle her empty hands.

Maja S. Todorovic