by Dasha Kocisova
Sometimes I’m nervous when I see you opening the door.
For a second I hold my breath, and I wonder which one
of you I’m going to get that day.
I repeat: “This has to end.”
I’m shaking and I need you but you don’t like it when I cry.
I’m labelled too sensitive. Too emotional. Too crazy.
Just too much human.
I repeat: “This isn’t him anymore.”
I lose myself bit by bit in the whirlpool of all the things
my lips refrain from telling you. Just keep smiling.
Real doesn’t look attractive on me.
I repeat: “Who are you? An illusionist.”
And for your next trick,
you’ll make me disappear.
Dasha is an English, Journalism and Creative Writing graduate from Slovakia based in Glasgow.