By: Richard Dulgheriu

Resentment

I don’t remember
when I became angry.
That’s the problem.
There was no morning
when I woke up
and decided
to hate the world a little.
It happened quietly.
A little from my father.
A little from being poor.
A little from watching people
have things
I was taught not to ask for.
A little from every time
I swallowed something
because men like us
were supposed to handle it.
Years passed.
I called it ambition.
I called it strength.
I called it not giving a fuck.
Anything
but resentment.
Now I’m thirty-two,
and sometimes
someone who has done nothing wrong
says the wrong thing,
and I can feel twenty years
answering them.
That’s when I understand—resentment doesn’t always remember
who hurt you.
It just remembers
that somebody did.

Old Boots

My boots feel heavy.
Heavier than yesterday.
And yesterday, they were heavier
than the day before that.
But I keep wearing them.
They’ve walked miles and miles with me.
Through mud and rain.
Through dust and concrete.
Through cold mornings
and long days that seemed to have no end.
I don’t remember when I bought them.
I don’t remember the first day
they touched the ground.
I only know they’ve been with me
for a long fucking time.
And now they’re worn out.
The leather is tired.
The soles are tired.
Maybe I am too.
But tomorrow morning
I’ll put them on again.
Because there are some things in life
you don’t replace
just because they’re worn out.
You keep wearing them
until they can’t carry you anymore.

Become A Poet

I would never tell anyone
to become a poet.
There are easier ways
to hurt yourself.
I know.
I spend my days carrying bricks,
grinding old walls,
pushing my hands into wet cement
until the skin around my fingers
splits open.
By evening,
my shoulders ache.
My palms sting under hot water.
There is dust in places
dust has no business being.
But at least the body
knows what to do with pain.
It heals.
A cut closes.
A bruise changes colour.
The back forgives you eventually.
Then I come home
and open a notebook.
And suddenly I am twenty again.
Or eight.
Or standing in some kitchen
with someone who no longer loves me.
That’s the cruelty of writing.
You spend all day
repairing broken things,
then come home,
sit beneath a quiet lamp,
and carefully
break yourself open
to see what can still be used.

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.

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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.