Poland,

You’ve searched for yourself in the faces and hands of others, you’ve swam across oceans asking “why?” and still you come up and out, empty-handed. You leave because you can, you run because you’re fast enough and you scream of freedom and liberties when he pins you down, asking “why”?

You’ve left a second time, and apologised just before burning the house with the children in it. You claim to be wild, free and wild, but yet you step into webs, bundle yourself in blankets, hugs and kisses in between you know will not last, and then you break free, leaving scars in your wake. He does not know the right questions to ask— too small a character, you think. Too small for you. You know there’s bigger fish to fry.

So you promise yourself you’ll stop, but deep down you know the chase itches you. You are an old grandma’s cabinet stocked to the brim, and you are an angry man in the house, smashing and smashing all the plates because they are so many ahead of you. You are angry at something- someone, perhaps, but it is not him.

A wolf’s bite has sent you running and now you hunt all of them down. How do you do that? You come in glamour and know-it-all airs, dresses just see-through enough to suggest, but long enough to keep them guessing . You’ve mastered that naivety- the one that turns placid, the wildest of them all. You pick out the most vulnerable, indulge them, understand them, play out fantasies and then run. But you leave traces behind—enough to write your own story, where only you keep score and emerge as the victim, with the courage of Victors to move on to the next level. Wash, rinse, repeat. Oh, it’s happened again. You promised it wouldn’t.

Those close to you are too far away to raise an alarm. You hide behind petulant shields, thriving on supporters who keep you perpetually infantile. But people get hurt—he got hurt—they all get hurt, but that doesn’t matter. Use the right buzzwords, and you’ll win sympathies in court.

“Why?”, “why?”, “why?” He’s screaming, asking, crying, even, but you’ve made it clear to him you’re not the type to give clarity.   He’s gone now, and you’re already stalking new prey—studying him. What are his politics? How will you blink, nod, and flutter your eyes to convince him that you care? There’s a war blazing on the other side of you, Poland—a war you started and now you’ve left.