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  • Writer's pictureyannick-robin eike mirko


this poem can't be read aloud.

not by me, not by siri.

we're both busy listening to sad music today...sorry.

*the calming sounds of Bob snoring and a garden singing*

every time i come home, i rummage through this closet

looking for myself.

i usually find more of you than i would like,

more of me than i can comprehend at one time.

we always pass the hospital you were born in,

the one you gave birth to my sisters in,

the one i'm not from.

when i opened up about being called the 'gringo/american' of the family

during the summer of the black instagram squares,

you harrassed me and called me a liar, because you were ashamed of your actions.

i was never a liar, in the same way that you are not an artist, anymore.

you stayed frozen, en pointe, in El Morro, sometime in the 90's.

i write poems to get over you, as of today.


i know everything about you, now. the things you would've kept

hiding from us, if it wasn't for someone else ratting you out.

you probably hide these things because you know if we knew, you would've

held no power in that house.

i cannot forgive you for what i know. no one would.

what i can do is forgive myself for every fight we had.

people shouldn't apologize for being on the right side of history.

when we fight for the right thing, we never bend.

even when it means losing you.


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