Birthday

Today is my birthday.
No party.
No gatherings.
No cake.
No candles.
And my phone has been quiet.
Two phone calls.
Five messages.
That’s it.
Fifteen years ago,
there would’ve been hundreds.
People I barely spoke to
would write on my wall,
send stupid messages,
call me,
remember me for one day.
Now I look at my phone
and nothing lights up.
Maybe that’s what getting older is.
Not wrinkles.
Not grey hair.
Just watching the list
of people who remember you
get shorter every year.
Or maybe I’m not being forgotten.
Maybe everyone is just
getting busy
being forgotten too.

* * *

Studying My Darkness

I spent so much time studying my darkness
that I forgot I had a shadow because there was still light
somewhere.
I became an expert at finding my flaws.
I knew every mistake by heart.
Every regret.
Every ugly thought that visited me when the world went quiet.
I collected my failures like trophies and displayed them proudly,
as if suffering was the only proof that I had lived.
But somewhere in between all the things I hated about myself,
I forgot to look at the things that kept me alive.
The times I helped someone without expecting anything back.
The moments I stayed when leaving would have been easier.
The people I loved, even when I didn’t know how to show it.
The little boy who survived things he never understood.
The man who still wakes up every morning
and tries again, even after convincing himself he doesn’t care.
Maybe I am not the monster I spent years trying
to prove I was.
Maybe I am just a human being.
A collection of mistakes, memories, kindness, anger, love, and
scars.
Maybe the darkness was never the whole story.
Maybe it was just the part I knew how to write about.

* *

Lidl
The queue at Lidl
is fucking enormous.
In my basket:
one cheap bottle
of bourbon.
I came in for food.
Changed my mind
somewhere between
the bakery
and the alcohol aisle.
“Next.”
Beep.
“Cash or card?”
The cashier
keeps chewing her gum.
The old woman
in front of me
can’t hear her.
“Cash or card, ma’am?”
Nothing.
She opens her purse
and starts counting coins.
Slowly.
One by one.
People behind me sigh.
I look at her basket.
Bread.
Milk.
Two tins of soup.
Then I look at mine.
Bourbon.
For some reason,
I’m no longer
the saddest person
in the queue.

Richard Dulgheriu is a Romanian-born, Greek-raised writer living in
London, where he works in construction. His poetry explores
working-class life, migration, family, alcohol and the things people
struggle to say aloud.