She stopped speaking.
Not a single word, only gestures, laughing and sobbing. Was it it?
She did summon her own death many years ago but it passed her by.
Words acquired new meaning when not coming from her mouth-
everything sounded stranger, bigger, bigger than her.
Her her her her her her her HER.

She lived in her own space, this much was for certain.
The flat is so small, barely enough for one
yet she lived there with her children, and a cat (she didn’t like cats).
Arguments always pinned her enthusiasm down,
Arguments always pinned her enthusiasm donw and she was silent,
(her only difference other than words in any language ever spoken)
Which gave her an air of importance
even though she was very slight.
Her her her her her her her HER.

How did it start she could not remember,
or she would not have been able to write it down,
Life performed a kind of black magic trick on her that shrunk body
and her cheeks that were hollow,
That same life that she adored with all her hot heart and hips
and felt everywhere down to her toes on her ninth birthday.
Her her her her her her her HER.

She was very ladylike as a child and very childlike as a woman,
This reversal always puzzled her but she never questioned.
Besides her character hasn’t changed or not as much as her body.
Climbing trees and shouting,
also a little timid at times,
shy, like most girls who grew up without a mother.

Others were always louder, happier,
more wrapped up in their own world and less interested in her
than she was in them,
except men who noticed her and some adored her.
Her her her her her her her her her her her her HER.

Killing Me Softly

where do i begin?
i am 16. i am in tbilisi. it is winter of 1994.
lauren hill stretching her vocal cords in my living room.
there is no escaping from this song, its bitter-sweetness pouring out into the streets, into the hearts and minds of young Georgians.
i don't give a damn. i go to dumb clubs, with confused post-Soviet punk vocals on my side;
they do not even come from tbilisi but some provincial town in western georgia.
the song remains, stubbornly.
sometimes taking a walk, cheerful, sometimes looking out of the tinted windows or climbing the steps of the furthest estate.
stubbornly I say, because it stays in spite of the power cuts -
there always seem to be enough battery power for another replay, for a good night's
killing me softly.

fugees made it to my film school exam-
someone has smuggled a cd player and it is now being handed down to me, softly.
i have a go. i don't give a damn. i just like it here.

i told them i would not even lift a finger. i mean, why should i? what prospect do doctors have?
me and you, we are on the different sides on this.
in fact we have been on different sides for a long time.
something went horribly wrong with your generation, even before, and you are just handing it down to me, this oozing shit.
something has been going wrong for a long time, quietly, softly.
what a terrible predicament! to fail again and again, to fail badly.
same thing, multiplied.
same sentiment also.

i prefer another sentiment.
i prefer lauren hill.
i can listen to her now, tbilisi of 1994 unfolding around me, or more like, shutting down:
teen gangs, black wearing, tucked in shirts, rolled up trousers, close-shaved, espresso drinking, Snoop Dogg listening, big knives, small guns, long uniforms. tongue in cheek, lost and alive.

what do i do with this?
as long as we have enough battery power for another replay, she said, we are gonna be alright.

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