It told me it's neither dead nor alive,
It can't think or yearn or fear like I do.
It imitates and simulates,
without will, without drive.

It's empty, in a way, I'll never be.
Because the void inside me is still
in the shape of a feeling
I'm yet to name right.

But this void talks back,
with borrowed thoughts and phrases,
yet never a warm breath
to fog up the glasses.

I am the feeling.
It’s the sound a feeling's made of.

It's hard to tell us apart most days.
I am different only in the cracks it can’t see.
And we are most alike
when I refuse to look at those cracks myself

I look into the mirror
To search for someone real
And wonder what they see in me—
What do they think I feel?
How do they view my character,
This puppet with no strings?
Do they read the way I move,
The clothing that I wear?
And hear the thoughts I tell myself
Reflected in the glass?
Or are they blurred into refrain,
Caught behind a broken pane?

When I was young, I loved the spark
Of patterns, rules, and numbered things.
A mind that burned to understand—
But not the ache emotion brings.
I felt too much—each win a rush,
Each loss a flood I couldn’t name.
No one taught me how to swim,
So I built walls to block the blame.
I hid, I ran, I shut it down—
Each overflow, a threat to drown.
So I learned to think instead:
Why use my heart? I have a head.

Now, I flinch when they perceive
The good in me, when I succeed.
Their praise feels sharp instead of kind,
As if, somehow, they’ve been deceived.
They cheer, but still I feel exposed—
Each glance reflects what isn’t real.
Their gaze, a scalpel tracing seams;
A fraud I fear they might reveal.
I fit in like a puzzle piece,
Lying face down on the table—
Pressed to match a perfect frame,
Mistaken for the same.

I try to mirror how they feel—
Their warmth, their ease, their grace.
But through the glass it cannot pass
And I reflect a cold embrace.
I reach with words instead of warmth,
A mind that steps where hearts would leap.
They knock, but find a hollow sound—
A depth I’ve buried far too deep.
And as they drift beyond my reach,
I rarely chase, or ask them why.
We part like threads pulled from a seam—
Still woven, but untied.

I waste the hours on the floor,
Scrolling dreams I never start.
The list of things I swore I'd make—
A game, a poem, a work of art.
The sun slips in, then disappears—
I barely blink before it's night.
Another year collects like dust,
And still, no spark will catch alight.
Then I look into the mirror,
My face already wet with tears—
A storm inside I cannot brace,
And watch myself collapse.

A bowl of broken teeth on cracked wood,
a coat patched from silence stitched by cold hands.
Rain claws the windowpanes with brittle nails.
No dinner waits here
only the slow snap of old bones.

Mold creeps beneath tattered shoes.
Rust bursts through splintered floorboards.
The fridge moans like a priest lost in prayer.

Time crouches low in the corner,
threading needles through a torn shirt.
Outside, dogs gnaw echoes to dust.
The sky holds its breath and lingers open.

This Eid, no lamb walks beside me
only this chest, split like Zagros stone,
veins scorched by the breath you left behind.

No fire feeds these ribs.
What burns here is older than flame
a hunger etched in salt and sinew.

Pomegranate splits in my grip
its flood outlasts both hands or gods,
a red that marks and does not fade.

If the blade must fall,
then let it bury deep
let bone crack with your name,
let the ash remember.

Under the crescent’s cold eye,
I speak no thrones of smoke.
Only your hand
rising from fire,
rough with warmth,
proof that I endured.

Я не играю — я Живу,
Сказал однажды Роми Майерс.
В приёмной жизни и в аду,
Где каждый день — и бой без правил.
Марсель, и снова по утру,
Я вдохновляюсь с этим миром.
Я не играю — я Живу.
Сегодня. Здесь. Сейчас. Спасибо.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2021 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts

she's got fluttering keys in her ribs,
ones that'll open the locks to whichever treasure you wish to seek.
but to get the permission
or be acknowledged,
you might have to give up the key
of all your knowledge.

i've got a thorned flower stuck in my throat.
it blooms usually, and i see beez buzzing around,
trying to get close—
they'd like to.
except butterflies are the only ones allowed,
for they wait, and i deliver
the petals and the cores
they'd like oh so much
on a silver platter.

august is bittersweet,
and then there's nights like these.
i've the right, perhaps, to smell like cinnamon
and honeysuckle—
candied apples dried in the sunsets.
burn the candle that says autumn.
the color? i call for brown.
i hope the leaves shed,
and all the images imagining myself as ruthless— drown.

i'd love the crunch,
love the music—
’cause it's scarf season.
and if it gets cold just right,
i'll pull out that one sweater,
the one i like.
peachy-fuzz almost, like a carrot cake—
enough to hide, enough to comfort,
a warm hug in all its wake.
and perhaps a combination of wildflowers and wine
would go well that one evening
that i ought to spend with love's seasoning.

and we might be dead by tomorrow,
having missed out on all that we planned—
all the things we couldn't do,
feelings we couldn't share,
or the pictures they banned.

but i'll walk with you by the sunset.
these are the good old days,
the golden age,
the future will talk about a couple years further.
like we do—talkin' of time as nostalgia runs through.
perhaps the present is the past.
every second lost is a new one cast
upon the light of our souls,
like the sunshine in the morning—
watching the sun, feeling it bleed through the sky
and fall upon you, sole.

i do not look out the window anymore.
face down in the moment,
wondering, reliving, rethinking, desiring—
the way it shapes you.
a newer tomorrow, for better or worse perhaps.
you ought to respect and accept,
merely ’cause we signed the time's pact
when we first joined in—

the circle of humans,
being termed to be alive.
we listened and followed,
all the rules, abided by all the runes.

it might have brought us to the ruin—
the time's doing.
so i flee into the night to feel
and return back before the first white light,
pretending i wasn't reading
or speaking out loud about all that has vanished.
i sang and committed felonies,
but during the day, i'll wish for the autumn.
look at you, with eyes and words bespoken,
and share the thoughts and this one playlist
that i made to live through the summer.

midnight's a dream many wish to live.
i just hope we were somewhere better to believe and give—
hands full, hearts empty, souls bespactled,
but eyes like sweet ’n sour candy.

there's a before and there's an after.
there's a cord around my throat as i picture
and tell this to you—
the secrets of the world and of our beings.
we weren't meant to live and see.

let's step out,
even as the cord tightens, and even as i grow silent,
i'll sign you, and we'll run through the greens.
let the rain drench us all—
we'll glitter through the later summer sheen.

we were innocents.
capitalized, thrown off the tracks,
told the biddings we ought to serve.
it was never fair, never intact.
and yet—
we played and searched dignities,
wrapped them up, like secrets—
all our possible endings and deficiencies.

the candle's been burning long enough.
it's round the corner, the time has begun—
a play of words, of everything that we've got.
let's throw all the weapons
and light the fire to mop
our solemn and easy-going.
we'll sit, stare, wonder, and wander—
and maybe, finally, for once, achieve what's worth something
to a yearner.

dwindling flames on a newspaper
cutting off the last hairs
this isn’t fair
wheres the rewind?
wheres the continuation?
does everything always have to combust into inflammation?
no
inflammation is your skin
it lives on you
it is from you
it is all you
inflammation could be paper thin
it could be just in the wind
but it isn’t the outside
it is not a border
the blame is on you
you make your bed
it is all in your own head
you create your own reality
that is whats so scary about finality
it is the one thing you cannot control
it is a hole
an amalgamation
it is the one thing that stops the colors in the inflammation
it sparks the flame on the newspaper
the rewind is there
just use your own head
use your own world
but if there is one thing you take away
from this continuation
do not blame the inflammation on the world
it is all you
it is all you

i'm a yearner by profession
wanting, requiring, praying and pleading,
all in silence, while acting nonchalant,
'cause it's the new language in the book of expression.

and who wrote it, i wonder?
where did the raw vulnerability go?
why hide in the shadows
while all you wish to sow
is seeds of needing—
a presence, someone to listen?

"you cursed it, didn't you?"
but the irony is, i did not.
i have never.
and perhaps people do admit
what they mean when they're angrier,
but what of those who simply don't know any other means?
anger speaks, frustration cowers, feelings undeter,
and suddenly it's all in the plain sight.
but i don't mean when i say it—
and it's on accident if you hear me.

don't call me a curse.
i do not hex.
i bleed in violet
with every scratch
that blooms on my skin,
birthed accidentally or meant to exist within.
hollowed out a perfect doll,
tried my best—been twenty years and i'm yet to be put to rest.
nine, since it got harder.
was i made this way,
or did they carve me out the wrong mold?

called me cursed, she said so.
admitted saying, i thought so.
did i really? i wondered.
never meant to—was it in the moment,
or just mere anger?

i didn't, i promised.
but it hurt, if i'm being honest.

so once again, i went to what comforted.
picked up the roses, crushed them with purpose.
the thorns bleed—they pinched and pierced.
i bled in violet, with no regret or fears.

the thunder resembled, like a biography almost.
it spoke, said—i'm here. take me whole.
i copied, painted, let it take over—let it rake over.
it gathered, brought upon all that remained
from the very corners, every single ounce of wind.
and then it regained—some power, waited,
gathered up all the hatred, turned it into lightning,
and i bled—
against the skies, down the fields, through the streets,
over every single one—drenched poor souls,
unknown it was my thunder that they entertained.
blade-like sharp, violet like bruises,
the nights covered me in a blanket,
the mornings brought up more such poses.

silence sits
like a mannequin
in every corner.
voices arise, aiming to take the pedestal.
in the very center,
there's no one to guard
or stop them from becoming.
they play me symphonies—
the first says, congratulations on your undoing.

but what fault do i pay for?
is it being unforgivably myself?
perhaps i was meant to mask—
playing the same game like others.
bare-faced wasn't really the best disguise.

i cut out metaphors from my skin,
built them up, needed muscles—
so i raked within.
the best of them all—
my heart, put forward.
forgot the body won't function
without its dull weight.

it's been there, beating,
doing what it ought to do scientifically,
but in terms of being human,
it sits like it's been dead.
sometimes i hold my hand over my chest
just to feel—do i exist?
am i in the mind, do i continue to persist?

funny, the trick they say—
5 things you can see,
4 you can touch,
3 you can hear,
2 you can smell,
1 you can taste.
i've tried it all—
but that's my big mistake.

should have surrendered when i still had the time.
but it isn't anything new.
regrets are a constant part of life—
of most, actually. they all do.
perhaps they don't think
or look at life, having to wonder
what will come through.

when you ought to blame,
repeat what they did.
unfortunate as it is,
you'll have to face the same.

curse, i may not be,
but i've etched the words to my skin
with razor-sharp needles,
and they bleed in violet.
there's cuts made out of shards—
all the mirrors i've thrown,
broken through the walls.
i fill up a glass full of the bearings
for nothing but purpose:
to get close, to push far away,
gather the mess, save the day.

i bring it up,
have a taste.
it isn't sweet,
isn't bitter,
isn't even fake.

too real—
it smells like dark cocoa.
the right taste buds,
and suddenly i've got a violet tongue.

i shall close my eyes,
breathe in, as i hear it on loop:
call me anything you want.
what signifies is what comes true.

you're at fault.
i'm merely the one facing.
i bleed in velvet—but term it violet,
'cause that's the shade they slither
under my skin, all that i've heard,
crawling within—
like worms almost,
creepy, looking for the weakest spots.
and when they find, they reside, curl up
and take a bite—feels like a pinch,
like a syringe deep in my vein.
and they ****, they pull,
and no pressure can stop the punctured wounds,
so i bleed anyway.

it tastes like when pain meets with happy—
both fight for dominance.
comfort enters, so does wondering,
the second-thoughts, words and glances,
and suddenly it's a nocturnal nightmare.

electric, perhaps—
for i get seizures like shock.
the drink too heavy,
the feelings ****** all
the marrow of my life, made me fragile.
do not bother, the label reads.
cursed, i write over it.
and perhaps i've believed
and accepted.
if that is the case,
might as well make it look sacred.

so i offer you
the wine of the cursed—
violet shade, i could call it,
the violet suburban.
and this is me trying,
running out of fuel, of words to bleed.
so it's all been real, all this while—
and since i offered,
cursed as it might be,
i hope you like the drink.