幸存者羞愧

Simon Kerola

幸存者羞愧

幸存者羞愧就像是 我知道自己做了什么 姐姐却为此在隔壁房间挨揍。

问题就在这里——我做了。 我没做。做了，没做。 我做了我做了我什么都没做。

幸存者羞愧就像是 里奇装满子弹的枪， 在生活里遭遇的失败 在他的枪里面找了回来： 一颗子弹如迟到的救护车一样哭叫 一颗子弹为了本可以做点什么， 却只能躲在开花的脑袋里而哭泣。 一颗子弹一直不停地哭泣 因为除了里奇 每个人都活了下来。 至少我曾经是这么想的。

我的负罪感 就像是霉菌和一束花。 花属于死者 霉菌属于仍在我皮肤留下污渍的眼泪， 这皮肤，这皮肤——

我觉得已经不适合再穿 奶奶过世时 我穿的东西， 或者是目睹了许多人 被大风刮走时我穿的衣服 所以我试着裁剪 那些仍然存留的东西， 作为供物献上， 为我所做的事情惩罚自己。

没做。做了。我没做。 没做没做没做。 我什么都没做。

幸存者羞愧 就像是某人喝了毒药 却等待我死去 我却没有大声地说出来 我并不因此嫌弃自己。

恭喜——我现在像钉子一样坚韧 但我依然会遭遇挥来的拳头 和闲言碎语，我努力擦去瘀痕， 除去弟兄姐妹们的不幸。 我知道我带给他们许多的痛苦。 我做了但没有消除 语言，肉体和精神上的折磨。

虽然我在父亲焦虑的两端， 但仍然有些事情 我们不会去说， 我知道，对于我的兄弟姐妹们 叫他“爸爸”， 就像是对着 一颗金苹果，无法下口

幸存者羞愧 就像是所有我没找到的玫瑰 如果没有人爱 就努力学会爱自己。

只是荆棘和掩埋的绿色花蕾， 重新长出某种仇恨 刻进我的肉体，印在我的心里。

这个我做了。没做。 我没做。我做了 我做了我做了 我做了不可思议的事，并且横跨 如此的大海：不在乎付出多少 当我努力放下自己， 以避免疯狂，告别过去。

幸存者羞愧 就像是话到了舌尖 声音却哽住了 只剩下这无用的泪水。 它就像你亲吻了剪刀， 烙铁，或者缝衣针。 就好像说我岂不是从小就 更倾向于用仍未愈合的伤疤 说话吗？

脑海里的声音告诉我遗忘是一件很轻松的事 但是在我是如何生存下来，与 不断涌现出来的 自杀的31种味道之间 横亘着幸存者的负罪感。

我没做过。 我做了我做了我 什么都没做。

这首诗是关于： 我

作者 / 珍妮 翻译 / Phil

SURVIVOR'S GUILT

Survivor's guilt sounds like my sister getting beat in the next room for something I know I did.

That's the thing-- I did. I did not. Did, did not. I did I did I did NOTHING.

Survivor's guilt looks like Ricky's loaded trigger-- a round he lost in life, but found in his gun: A bullet that cried like an ambulance come too late. A bullet that cries about what could have been done besides taking refuge in a blossoming mind. A bullet that will weep relentlessly because everyone survived except for Ricky.

Or at least I used to believe so.

My guilt looks like mildew and a bouqet of flowers. Flowers for the dead and mildew for the tears still staining my skin. This skin,thisskin--

well I didn't think it was fitting to wear the same thing I did when my grandmother passed or when I witnessed souls run cold like stiff breezes so I tried to cut the pieces that are still present, make an offering, punish myself for what I did.

Did not. I did. I did not. Did not did not did not. I did nothing.

Survivor's guilt feels like neglecting to reject the parts of me that don't speak up when someone drinks poison and expectsmeto die.

Congrats--I'm tough as nails but still eating knuckle sandwiches and air sandwiches trying to unbruise, trying to undo my siblings' tragedy. I know I caused them a lot of pain. I did but did not releive the verbal, the physical, the emotional torture.

Though I was on both ends of our father's angst and there arestillthings we don't speak about, I know that calling Him "daddy" was a golden apple my siblings couldn't sink their teeth into.

Survivior's guilt smellslike all the roses I didn't find trying to learn to love myself when no one else would.

Just thorns and green buds buried, reproducing the kind of hatred branded on my insides and carved on my flesh.

This I did. Did not. I did not. I did I did I did I did the unthinkable and sailed across the sea of How Many Cares Don't I Give When Trying To Off Myself So Im Not A Component of Insanity But An Object Of Goodbye.

Survivior's guilt tastes like words on the tip of my tongue but choking back my voice instead of these useless tears. It tastes like kissing a pair of scissors or a flat iron or a sewing needle. Tastes like wasn't I raised to be less than speaking up by way of scar tissue still healing?

Voices in my head make oblivion feel like home but survivior's guilt is the barrier bewtween how I survived and thoughts rampantly dripping with Suicide in 31 Flavors.

And I did not. I did I did I did Nothing.

This poem is about: Me

Jerney

我知道很多人还是会在半夜打开疫情地图，它现在和刚开始开发出这个实时统计时的色块差不多——红色的不多，也不深，有很多白色区块，大多数数字是零。

唯一不同的，是累计确诊和累计死亡。

与这样庞大的数字相比照，我们幸存者的痛苦是不值一提的。但我们的某个部分与离开的已经被永远绑在一起了。

我们流了很多无用的眼泪。在指尖和键盘之间奔走呼号——没有比这首诗更恰当的形容了：“幸存者羞愧就像是话到了舌尖，声音却哽住了，只剩下这无用的泪水。”

每每读到这一节，都让人心颤流泪：

“它就像你亲吻了剪刀， 烙铁，或者缝衣针。 就好像说我岂不是从小就 更倾向于用仍未愈合的伤疤 说话吗？”

一提到这一切，我们仍然像是在用仍未愈合的伤疤说话。

其实根本没有人忘记。

李文亮的微博下，大家每天都还在说想他，告诉他自己辛苦，告诉他想念自己的亲人，告诉他北京又有了确诊，告诉他生活都不错可是好想有个男朋友，告诉他他有孩子了很健康。

现在，夏天到了，南方的梅雨季节也来了——也就是今年，我们谈到每个季节的到来都用一种郑重其事的语气。如今天气闷热，偶尔出门走着，会忽然下起雨来，倒也不大。但因为常常忘了带伞，就免不了匆匆躲在树荫下，或者奔进写字楼里避雨。也只是几个一闪而过的时刻，我会感到一片寂静：落下的不是雨点，脚边溅起的也不是泥水，花坛里的栀子花也软塌塌的，都化成白茫茫一片。

那些素未谋面的痛惜和未曾交手却产生的恨意，都还是那么强烈，并没有随着时间消失。

这个世界好像下了一场又一场的雪。而我们仍然站在雪里。

荐诗 / 姜莱 2020/06/16

第2656夜