If you ask me now what I want, I will think of a big house full of kids,
whose laughter fills it.
A dog running in the garden.
A partner by my side,
whom I love so much it hurts,
whom I will protect with all my power,
for what it's worth,
and who will love me just as much—
maybe a little less,
because I want to give them
more than everything,
more than I receive.
Maybe it’s selfish,
or maybe it’s even masochistic,
but I want them to feel
that they are the most loved person in the universe,
because they deserve it.
But what I will say is that I want a small apartment,
filled with books—
which I have read and not,
and maybe some I never will.
A corner with my guitars,
that I still can't properly play,
but they sit there,
waiting for the day.
A dog who sleeps
on the other side of my bed,
whom I love more than anything,
with whom I go for long walks
until both our legs hurt.
And then we return home
to our crammed and cramped apartment—
but still so empty.
Where I will cook
my dinner for one,
with a couple of extra pieces,
which I will give to my dog,
even if I’m not supposed to.
Where I will sit in the kitchen
late at night,
sipping coffee
because I can’t sleep,
but can’t do anything either,
so I think it’ll help.
I will look through the window,
breathing in the cold air,
and I will dream
of a big house, kids, the love of my life.
But I will keep coming back
to the same conclusion:
that I don’t deserve a big house,
because I can’t even keep clean
my small apartment.
That I shouldn't have children,
because I can’t give them what they deserve.
Because I will ***** them up, like everything else.
And I don’t deserve a loving partner,
because I don’t deserve love at all.
So I will sit there,
waiting for the nights and days to pass by.
And then I will die—
alone.
