a way for the exposed nerve

I've always been as if missing. 

From my own body. 

I have never fit the narrative. 

In my own life. 

I've always believed that the artistic craft 

is a way for the exposed nerve. 

To grown new skin. 

 

I've always wondered what it would be like if 

my mother and my father or Erik Lindegren. 

With great speed would run in here. 

And without preamble simply 

crush my nose. 

Then I would wake up, perhaps. 

And become a bit more expressive? 

 

What if my father and my mother 

or Moa Martinsson. 

Would suddenly kick the door open to my decrepit writer's-

workshop at the flats in the far-away. 

And without delay beat me to death. 

Would you be sad then? 

 

[Kristina Lugn {1948-2020}, '(a piece of a poem)']