While she used to
nail my hand to the
dining room table I would
think of an endless ocean with
no waves where
currents would flow like
power lines like
veins in my forearms and

while she used to
part my legs I would
think of the playground we first met
would think of her
stainless grey skirt when she
moved through the air and

while she used to
cut my face with razors I would
think of her tongue and
the way she used to tell me

love does not convict


I grew up learning
the names of the wires
stretching from your brain
attached to the ceiling and
to the floor while you
sat in the centre of the room
like an icon or a

always in bright display
even when your eyes dripped down to
your cheeks
when your skin flaked off and your
hair turned to dust

and I would take the
bow of your favourite violin and
play tunes both angry and sad

and the rags that reminded me of
curtains moved softly while
wind licked their fringes and

the floorboards danced shyly when
I played my tunes

19 years of age, currently residing in the depths of Estonia. Grew up in an
industrial area, consider home an oasis between the mountains of industrial
debris. Write in both English and Estonian.

2005 Underground Voices