Naoko Fujimoto/Sei Shōnagon

Prose by Naoko Fujimoto/
Poem by Sei Shōnagon

A wall is something I build when I see you, it does not matter what type of seal. I draw one, too—a silk curtain, a paper screen—and close it. Shut it hard. I hate the noise of unfitted sliding doors. I don’t track where you walk from corridor to room. I do not want to sink into your smell. I refuse your voice. I have enough—

I didn’t know               who I was
                                                where my heart belonged

but I made a decision
                                    not to meet you again;             maybe I was short-tempered,
                                                                                                            I was wrong—


                                                                                                            I might

                                                                                                                                    like you.

warenagara/waga kokoro o mo/shirazu shite/mata aimizi to/chikai keru kana