I Never Was a Good Daughter

I wish my father didn't have to bring

Race

Religion

Nationality

Sexuality

Into every argument,

Into every disagreement,

Into every unpleasant encounter with others.


I wish my mother didn't force ideas of

Finding a husband

Looking for love

Having a child

Into every conversation about my future

Into every talk about happiness.


I wish I didn’t have to justify

Every of my words and my leaps of faith

To every open mouth that screams authority

And curses those who do not fear love.


I was never a good daughter.


*


Now my savior is no longer on a wooden cross, pierced with nails

Instead, she has amber eyes and rosy lips


Now my savior’s flesh is no longer an offering from hands of the holy,

Instead, her flesh melts under my feverish touch.


Now the only prayers I hear are her wet, shaky breaths against my neck,

And the praises I sing are her name in her ear


Now when I call the name of the one I was taught to worship,

I do it with rolling eyes and hungry tongues and dripping lips


Now the rosary I clutch is her hair in my fists

and its beads are our clashing teeth.


Now we are holy.


Crucifix.


*


So as I bleed in my own arms

And try to sew my skin

I curse the water

That grew me.


As my father’s spine bends

And cracks under the burden,

I spit and cast stones

At this corrupt land.


As my sisters clamor,

And wail and cry,

Over youth ripped

From between their thighs,

I pluck out the eyes

of every beast

that dared touch them.


As my brothers spill tears

And own lives

Over burns and punches and bruises

On the sidewalk

For holding hands

I burn faces

of all who despise lovers.


As children we hardly crawl

From bones broken

By whips and torches

From scraped knuckles

And broken voices

We will still fight and howl

At leather faces.


Of the world I resent.


*


Since I was a child, I was made to feel like I need to fit inside a certain mold: the perfect daughter,

The A+ student,

The devoted catholic,

The fastest reader.


Even as I got sick, molds were all I could measure myself by:

Thinnest wrist,

Biggest thigh gap,

Most days without a meal.


So how refreshing it felt to finally find who I truly am.


And how heartbreaking, that even then I had to size myself down to fit inside. :

“You don’t even look gay.”

“You’re probably just experimenting”

“Girls like you think they’re lesbian and mess with our heads.”

“Bisexual? You know that’s not really a thing right?”

“You just need se good dick, baby”


“You do not get to be this hungry, you do not get to have it all and want it all. You are sick and selfish and sick and sick and sick!”


Not so eye-catching.


*


Kr še zmeraj slišiš zvoke iz njenga fleta

In še kr vohaš uni vonj

(pizda, fak)

Drgač čisto, čisto čisto drgač je.

Stopiš, stopnice škripajo zmer še,

Tko kot so ko je ona stopala

In pazla, da te ne zbudi

Malo te strese, a?


(Kr mene zmrazi. Malo skrbi.)


Ne, ne moreš tega kr tko pozabit,

Pa dej no, ne delaj si utvar.

Ja, okej, loh rečeš, da tega nočeš nazaj,

Da nje nočeš nazaj,

Ampak ne moreš mi rečt,

Da te vse kar piješ iz njenega kozarca ne zapeče,

In te ne skelijo ustnice.


Kr še zmer slišiš kko si češe lase,

In išče pulover med oblekami na tleh tvoje sobe;

Kr se še vedno spominjaš

Njenih rok,

Medtem ko v svojih ziblješ mene.


Not my love story, but my ending.


*


Odprto pismo tebi.


Oprosti.

Oprosti, da včasih ne znam razločiti med žaljivko in šalo; da imam tako pogosto mrzle roke, in jih najraje ogrejem na tvoji koži.

Oprosti, da se občasno spotikam, zatikam, postopam ob tvojih besedah,

In da lažje točim solze kot pa belo vino (brez da bi vsaj malo zlila mimo).

Oprosti, da se mi tako hitro zatrese glas in da vsako tvojo besedo potežkam na konicah prstov, da občutim njeno pristnost.

Oprosti, da se včasih še vedno primerjam z njo in da ti priznam, da bom to še nekaj časa počela.

Ravno tako mi oprosti, da jo vidim in slišim njeno ime povsod in da se še vedno skušam prepričati,

Da nisem samo trenutno nadomestilo za njeno srce ob tvojem.


Not her.


*


As I sip whiskey off of my lover’s lips I hear my mother laugh

“Did I not tell you you are a sinner?”

She speaks not of the alcohol, or the smokes that pass my lungs,

but of the sin etched onto my fingertips,

for they dared immerse in the velvet folds


But when my lover devours me and pulls at the softness of my body,

I hear not the devil’s laugh, but every church bell tolling to grace us.


Psalm.


*


Vedno sem se zavedala pogledov, ki sem jih bila deležna. Vedela sem, kako so me gledali. Požirali, trgali obleko, in včasih delčke kože z njo.

Poslani poljubčki ko grem mimo. 13 ali 65, saj jim je vseeno.

Uuu, nogice nogice, kaj lahko delam z usti, kaj na kolenih.

Ja sej vem, ogabno.

Ampak ne morem reč, da en izjemno narcističen del mene ni bil ponosen.

Racionalno če razmišljam, vem, da bi porinili svoj kurac v vse kar hodi in vsaj stereotipično ali relativno nakazuje na ženski spol.

Saj ne vem, ali me to žali ali vzburja.

Do kolikšne mere sem sprevržena, če mi to predstavlja nekakšen ego-boost?


In še vedno se, poleg vseh navedenih enosmernih interakcij,

Sama sebi najbolj gnusim.

Kot prežvečen kos skorje kruha,

Ki v papirnati vrečki ždi na kuhinjskem pultu.


Objekt.


*


Sreča v malih je stvareh:

Glasbi z ulice,

Okusu lubenice.

Je v smehu mame in besedah očeta.

Je z njo ležati pod soncem objeta,

Je v besedah, ki jih izgovori:

''Nikamor ne bom šla''.


Sreča v malih je stvareh.

Kot v narezanem sadju,

In 1.51m visokem dekletu,

Ki iz koščkov sadja zame odstranjuje

Peške, ki me nikoli niso zares motile.


Sreča je v njej že nekaj časa.


Poletje.


*


I was 14 when I first doubted god.

For all the floods, the bloodshed and the rage,

the hunger and sickness and the hate.

(it was also the first time I tasted his name from her lips)


I was 17 when I decided to leave no cross unturned,

to leave room for all deemed sinful,

to be all I was taught not to be.

(spite, all I did, was out of spite and fury)


i was 21 when I finally saw Him,

illuminated by sunlight, in Venus’ body, smiling across the table from me,

with whiskey-coloured eyes and a promise to show me the world I couldn't imagine.

(the only holy promise kept)


I was 22 when I called his name with her hand between my thighs,

and a devious smile from underneath me said:

"You flatter me. I really am God to you."

(you are much more than that)


At last a believer.


Kaja Šafar (1998) je trenutno študentka angleščine in zgodovine na Filozofski fakulteti UL. Živi in ustvarja v Ljubljani, večino svojega časa nameni pisanju poezije, krajše proze, esejev, pa tudi kakšnih besedil za pesmi. Z neskončno rastočim seznamom hobijev ter interesov in ogromnim zaupanjem v ljudi je zelo energična in pozitivna oseba, z veliko mnenji ter intoleranco na predsodke in ozkoglednost. S svojimi deli – katera je šele pred kratkim pričela bolj aktivno deliti z javnostjo - je nekajkrat sodelovala na literarnih večerih v domačem Kopru ter v najstniških letih zmagala na pesniškem natečaju, organiziranem s strani Gimnazije Koper.

V svojih delih (ki so napisana tako v slovenščini kot angleščini – občasno tudi hrvaščini) si postopoma prizadeva biti čim bolj odkrita, ter se čim manj cenzurirati in si dovoliti biti direktna in 'surova'. S pisanjem se ukvarja odkar pomni ter v tem marsikdaj najde uteho in varnost, ki jo potrebuje.

Glavno uredništvo, poezija, proza, dramatika in vse vmes: Tom Veber

tom.veber@gmail.com

Fotografija, cianotipija, performans, instalacija, intervju in vse vmes: Sara Nuša Golob Grabner

 

saranusa.golob@gmail.com

Slika, strip, kolaž in vse vmes: Jakob Golob

jakob.golob1@gmail.com

Publicistični članki, eseji recenzije in vse vmes:
Veronika Razpotnik

 

veronika.razpotnik@gmail.com

© 2020 Stigma 

Izdelava: Zala Šeško