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Ioanna Gerakidi / Ιωάννα Γερακίδη

The water of things

The Water of things


Fake sacred milk, the water of things or fluids are the new breaks.

You just need to suck them.

Once your body absorbs them, safety is not comforting anymore.

That’s why bees lick the surfaces of flowers.

It’s because they are nomads, itinerants; feeling safe is definitely not their thing,
you know?

I’m not sure if that all’s true, it doesn’t sound right to me.
I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend me, but well
I felt betrayed.
Cause did I tell you I got married to what’s called: it’s easier?

I did and trust me it’s not.
Even typing feels weird, words are not otherworldly anymore.

These words are trying their best to get my attention,
but they all smell like off white dry offices.
I’m trying my best to mute them,
but they’re loud, forcing me to eat loafs of bread.

And I do it every single time, connecting with mother earth, my mom’s past.

Volcanos, earthquakes, nuclear powers and cracks.

It all cracks.

So, I eat the bread, and in order to wash of my guilt, I listen to orchestral sounds;
reminders of resisting dissolving.

I remember he once he told me that I don’t make any sense.
I guess it was because I used leather and skin in the same sentence.

Very shaky.

Well in my world these two are synonyms, you bitch!
Also, I carry much more skin that you do,
and you never get to see it when I’m in your world, because I play by your rules!

Say thanks, I’m generous!

But then it gets sunny again and then I tend to dismiss avoidances and abductions,
by hiding under the ground.

I once buried myself.

Anyway, I have to tell you a story.
It’s the story of a tree that was born dead, rotten, torn apart,
full of wounds; it was marked by time long before it was born, and that’s not common. People named it Eryngium, due to its unpleasant odour.

They thought it would never survive life anyway.


Ioanna Gerakidi is a writer, curator and educator based between Amsterdam and Αthens


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