DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE Poem: I have a confession to make, by Jana Tvorogova

I’d like to be something written.
Not necessarily a text…
but something written…
you know what I mean, don’t you?

I’d like to be something written,
which is why I’ve given up writing written things.

I can feel it, I’m no longer the youngest
or the cleverest of them all.
I can no longer surpass my father.
I’m no longer a child who writes lovely poems.

Now I can only make up nonsense,
because something happened between me as a child and now.

I don’t want to grow old, I just want to grow up.
I’m not 18 any more.
I should have said no from the start.
I shouldn’t have given myself away.
But something happened between me as a child and now.

And now it’s too late.
I let it happen in silence,
I kept quiet in front of my parents,
I healed from things I didn’t tell my mother.

And now I’m left with words to read,
of course, but only lines to write.
We don’t deserve letters any more, I think.
Or maybe we’ve simply become the latter…
who can’t write or express ourselves in anything other than lines.

Something happened between me as a child and now.
Something… immense has happened.
And now I think that everything written is inhuman…
or too human.

I’d like to be something written, you know?
And you… yes, you.
All of you who write and write…
for all of you who would so much like to be a poem at least once.

I have love to give you.