Рупи Каур - The Sun and Her Flowers. Белые стихи, от которых распускаются цветы

cause you don’t look like them
i tell her

почему ты так недобра ко мне? —
кричит мое тело.

потому что ты не похоже на тела других женщин, —
говорю я ему.

you are waiting for someone
who is not coming back
meaning
you are living your life
hoping that someone will realize
they can’t live theirs without you

ты ждешь кого-то,
кто не вернется,
а значит,
живешь надеждой,
что кто-то наконец поймет,
что не может жить без тебя.

a lot of times
we are angry at other people
for not doing what
we should have done for ourselves

часто
мы сердимся на других людей за то,
что они не делают чего-то,
что должны делать мы сами.

why
did you leave a door
hanging
open between my legs
were you lazy
did you forget
or did you purposely leave me unfinished

почему
ты оставил открытой
дверь
меж моими ногами?
по лени ли,
по забывчивости
или сделал это намеренно, чтобы оставить меня незаконченной?

they did not tell me it would hurt like this
no one warned me
about the heartbreak we experience with friends
where are the albums
i thought
there were no songs sung for it
i could not find the ballads
or read the books dedicated to writing the grief
we fall into when friends leave
it is the type of heartache that
does not hit you like a tsunami
it is a slow cancer
the kind that does not show up for months
has no visible signs
is an ache here
a headache there
but manageable
cancer or tsunami
it all ends the same
a friend or a lover
a loss is a loss is a loss

мне не сказали, что будет так больно,
никто меня не предупредил
о сердечной ране, которую могут нанести друзья.
где же все эти альбомы, – подумала я,
об этом не пели песен,
и я не смогла найти таких баллад
или прочитать книг, рассказывающих о горе,
которое мы испытываем, когда нас оставляют друзья.
о том типе сердечной боли,
что не обрушивается на нас, как цунами,
а приходит, как неспешный рак,
который не проявляется месяцами
и не имеет зримых признаков.
боль возникает то в теле,
то в голове,
но какая-то терпимая.
рак или цунами,
по сути, заканчиваются одинаково:
потерей друга или любимого,
которые уходят, уходят, уходят.

i hear a thousand kind words about me
and it makes no difference
yet i hear one insult
and all confidence shatters

я слышу тысячи добрых слов обо мне,
но они меня не трогают.
однако одного оскорбления достаточно,
чтобы потерять веру в себя.

it began as a typical thursday from what i recall
sunlight kissed my eyelids good morning
i remember it exactly
climbing out of bed
making coffee to the sound of children playing outside
putting music on
loading the dishwasher
i remember placing flowers in a vase
in the middle of the kitchen table
only when my apartment was spotless
did i step into the bathtub
wash yesterday out of my hair
i decorated myself
like the walls of my home were decorated
with frames bookshelves photos
i hung a necklace around my neck
hooked earrings in
applied lipstick like paint
swept my hair back – just your typical thursday

we ended up at a get-together with friends
at the end you asked if i needed a ride home and

i said yes cause our dads worked at the same company
and you’d been to my place for dinner many times

but i should have known
when you began to confuse

kind conversation with flirtation
when you told me to let my hair down
when instead of driving me home
toward the bright intersection
of lights and life – you took a left
to the road that led nowhere
i asked where we were going
you asked if i was afraid
my voice threw itself over the edge of my throat
landed at the bottom of my belly and hid for months
all the different parts in me
turned the lights off
shut the blinds
locked the doors
while i hid at the back of some
upstairs closet of my mind as
someone broke the windows – you
kicked the front door in – you
took everything
and then someone took me
– it was you.

who dove into me with a fork and a knife
eyes glinting with starvation
like you hadn’t eaten in weeks
i was a hundred and ten pounds of fresh meat
you skinned and gutted with your fingers
like you were scraping the inside of a cantaloupe clean
as i screamed for my mother
you nailed my wrists to the ground
turned my breasts into bruised fruit

this home is empty now
no gas
no electricity
no running water
the food is rotten
from head to foot i am layered in dust
fruit flies. webs. bugs.
someone call the plumber
my stomach is backed up – i’ve been vomiting since
call the electrician
my eyes won’t light up
call the cleaners to wash me up and hang me to dry

when you broke into my home
it never felt like mine again
i can’t even let a lover in without getting sick
i lose sleep after the first date
lose my appetite
become more bone and less skin
forget to breathe
every night my bedroom becomes a psych ward
where panic attacks turn men
into doctors to keep me calm
every lover who touches me – feels like you
their fingers – you
mouths – you
until they’re not the ones
on top of me anymore – it’s you