I should say that I was left homeless

When they forced me out of my house.

When I left all my belongings behind.

I did not feel homeless by then, though.

Now, 

I cannot make this wet blanket, this bread half eaten by rats home.

​

It is still home as long as your mom caresses your hair and tells you:

This is all going to be alright.

poMy home's walls crumbled

when they threw her to the ground,

when they dragged her away from me.

​

It is still home as long as you have your faith,

your prayers.

I used to pray like God was listening.

​

I tell myself: I never had another life before this.

I tell myself: I do not know what a warm house is.

I do not have

a mother, nor father, nor brothers.

Not anymore.

I never ate anything other than this wet, white bread.

It is easier, this way.

​

I am made up of memories that are not mine anymore. 

Someone pasted them to the back of my mind: I look at them

like you'd look at a stranger's family album.

​

I am a tree with no roots, nor leaves.

All I am left is thin branches in winter.

​

I know I used to go to the seaside in summer- I know it just like I know that two plus two is four,

like it's matter of fact,

like it's something I've been taught and learned.

I do not remember how warm salty water felt on my hands.

I know I used to remember. I do not anymore.

​

My friend here says:

memories are not just memories,

memories are the fuel to endure,

to keep going.

​

I once wondered if I could build a new home out of my memories.

My friend here told me he sometimes does that.

He puts the wet, tasteless bread in his mouth

and thinks about the roasted chicken

his grandmother used to cook on Easter day.

He puts his head on the pot we eat from,

using it as a pillow,

and thinks about his double-sized bed.

And since it does not cost anything more,

he puts his wife in it.

​

I tried to do so.

All I got was:

wet bread under my tongue,

my mother's salad's bright colours behind my eyelids,

sharp pain between my lungs and under my ribs.

I did not try again.

​

It is better not to think

about all the things I have lost,

it is better not to think at all,

to protend I never had anything in the first place.

​

I used to bow my head and meekly ask God for mercy,

help,

salvation.

​

"Where is God now?"

asks the skeleton walking next to me.

Who is he talking to?
Me?

Himself?
God?
The skeleton's name was once Mark,

he once was a lawyer.

Was.

For a second

- just a split second-

I want to punch him in the face.

I want to hold his face and

dig my nails in his skin and

scream that God is there on the other side of the camp,

blue lips and white face,

hanged with his pink triangle sewed to his shirt.

​

If I found myself in front of God now,

I would punch him too.

​

Somebody says:

when all of this ends, we will all be free and return to our houses.

​

I have forgotten what it feels like to have something to live for.

​

I want to kick him too, and tell him:

there is no end.

We won't be free.

​

The only way to come back home is to die.

​

​