There might be a plan
I woke up,
looking at the walls,
And all of those pictures pinned on it,
staring at the lightbulbs
Wondering what's their purpose,
Questioning chairs and the table,
And why they're colored that way.
Over the floor scattered little toy cars,
Teddy bears,
And a ball,
I am wondering whom they belong to.
Do they belong to anyone,
Do they belong to me?
I am questioning what is that
Enormous white beast
With three sliding doors on,
And the reflection of a toddler in a little prison
In the middle.
Am I looking at myself?
I see
A little nose,
Brown eyes,
Almost no eyebrows,
Eyes devoid of eyelashes,
A few barely visible
Gold-white hairs on the head,
Flushed cheeks.
Those tiny, purple toes
Must feel cold,
I can see them
Trembling.
Something strange is happening,
As if I am starting to think, and
I am remembering.
I can clearly recall those breasts
From which I sucked warm life,
I am remembering and crying,
I want them back,
I am screaming,
I feel my lungs
Slowly being torn
Like paper,
But my voice is bouncing
Off the walls and all those pinned picures,
lightbulbs, chairs and table,
Little toy cars, teddy bears,
Enormous white beast with three sliding doors on,
And a ball.

I feel as if someone is there
Behind the closed door,
I feel as if there is God
Crouching
Watching me through the wall,
Not wanting to help me
Wanting to strengthen me.
This poem is courtesy of Bihać Calling.