Me

I sculpted my words so that they sound nicer

I thought I should look pretty when I confess my murder

And still, the lights from the window are blinding

I sit in the car watching,

Never daring to get out of it

And knock on the door of a semi-stranger

(Semi-friendship; a relation with no real definition)

And confess my murder.

I eroded the metal of my words;

There are tiny brownish-red spots now.

I want to cry.

I feel a big bowl of time passing me by,

And I eat it and eat it and eat it.

I am starving for what is not mine.

I look down, and I have no intestines,

No hunger for time.

I don't chase it; I don't regret it.

Now people ask me, but do you search for it?

I grind my teeth all day,

I bite my nails, and I never talk to semi-friends.

What is the point? Where is my shame?

I am alone, and I'm young and pretty.

This little voice inside me sometimes says to me,

Go on, go and live!

No, I don't search for it 

Time, life, space

They elude me.

I always sit in my car and watch the lights from the windows,

From the kitchens of people

Who have a warm meal and people to share it with.

And I knock.

I knock when it's a stranger,

And I sculpt my words for them.

Only lately, the metal is damaged.

It's not as sharp, as brilliant and silver as it used to be.

I have lost my will.

I switch to wood.

You could refer to my words as carpentry.

I let go of the decorative;

I don't really sculpt anymore.

I just cut the wood in half.

I let my finger bleed,

And it's all for me.

Me.

I cut it all for me.