Joanna: English version

Here’s an imperfect translation of a story that I wrote when I was 14 years old. I remember being so proud of myself for writing it. It was for a competition where they give you the italicized part and you have to continue the story. I was so disappointed that I didn’t win that year. I don’t really know what to think about it now. I seem to have written one of those female characters that are just narrative devices in a man’s story. She is passionate, says all the right words and wakes the hero from his lethargy. I wonder what direction the story would have taken if I had written it today.


How could the men we know be monsters? Monsters were creepy old dudes lurking in gloomy streets, preying on virginal girls. Not boys having sex with their girlfriends. Getting the friends involved was certainly questionable. But how could it be rape? The boys who befriended my family, who were at my house all the time, making me laugh so often, couldn’t be rapists. Could they?

These people we love

These people we love But that we cannot reach We feel the love boiling inside Feel that they are somehow a part of us A part of our story But sometimes the words fail us We struggle to meet them Across the gap of time Across the opportunities That made us different Made that our…

World tour through books: Afghanistan

“What’s the difference between menstrual blood and blood that is clean? What’s so disgusting about this blood?…You were born of this blood! It is cleaner than the blood of your own body!”

Aren’t you happy

Home is a killing ground
At home, when you go out
You might never come back

Vas-y, vis ! 

Une voiture qui s’engage dans une rue inconnue. A l’intérieur, une petite fille qui ne dit rien, mangeant des yeux les kilomètres qui se défilent. Enfin les murs d’une école qui se dressent. Le rêve du père qu’il espère voir vivre à travers elle. La petite fille ne le sait pas encore mais derrière ces…

Tic Tac

Réécriture de l’un de mes tous premiers poèmes De toutes mes peurs d’enfants Il en est une qui perdure La peur des horloges De la lente marche du temps Je me souviens encore De la frayeur qui me précipitait Toute tremblante Dans les bras de ma sœur Le son des horloges étaient Des pas qui…