Шибаната ЧИФУТСКА сган считат себе си за „богоизбрано“ племе. Факт е, че когато и да се е появил силен лидер той се е обявил против тях. На тях им промиват мозъците още от бебета. Отвратен съм да видя чифутско бебе в количка, но с типичните чифутски къдрици и чифутска шапчица. А да не забравяме, че според Библията именно ЧИФУТИТЕ предадоха Христос. Юда Искариотски е ЧИФУТ, нали?
Светът ше стане по – добър, когато юдейското племе изчезне от лицето на Земята.

Добрият нацист е МЪРТВИЯТ НАЦИСТ.
Добрият чшфут (евреин) е МЪРТВИЯТ ЧИФУТ.
Справка: Хитлер, Сталин и всеки силен лидер до днес.

Your wedding dress hangs in the closet,
a ghost of white in the darkness of our shared room,
the one you never got to see me wear,
the one I now wrap myself in at night,
the silk a shroud against the cold reality of your absence.

The cancer was a thief,
creeping into our home like a burglar in the night,
stealing your breath,
your strength,
your future,
leaving behind only pain and the hollow echo of what once was.

I remember the day you were diagnosed,
the doctor’s words like stones dropped into a still pond,
ripples of shock spreading outward until they reached me,
standing there in the sterile office,
my life shattering into a million pieces I would never be able to put back together.

The treatments were a torture chamber,
each round of chemo a new circle of hell,
your body a battlefield where modern medicine fought a losing war,
and I was the medic who could only watch,
helpless,
as the enemy claimed more territory with each passing day.

Your laughter, once the soundtrack of my life,
became a rare and precious thing,
a jewel in the rubble of our existence,
and I cherished each instance,
stored them away in the treasure chest of my memory,
not realizing they would become weapons against me in the end.

The night you died,
the world didn’t stop as I had expected it to,
the birds still sang,
the traffic still hummed,
people still went about their lives,
oblivious to the fact that mine had ended,
that the sun had set on my world forever.

I held your hand as you took your last breath,
felt the life slip away from you like sand through my fingers,
and in that moment,
a part of me died too,
the part that knew how to live without you.

Your funeral was a performance,
a charade of stoic grief,
while inside I was screaming,
tearing at the walls of my sanity,
begging for someone to see the truth—
that I was not just grieving,
I was being erased.

The house became a mausoleum,
each room a shrine to your memory,
each object a relic of a life that was no longer being lived,
and I became the curator of this museum of sorrow,
dusting the artifacts of our shared existence,
preserving the pain.

I find myself talking to you,
having conversations in my head,
seeking your guidance on matters big and small,
forgetting for a moment that you are gone,
that the voice answering back is only my own,
a poor substitute for yours.

The grief is a physical presence,
a weight that sits on my chest,
a constant companion that follows me from room to room,
that lies down with me at night and wakes me in the morning,
that reminds me with every breath that I am alone.

I see you in my reflection sometimes,
your face superimposed over mine,
a haunting reminder of the woman I am becoming,
or perhaps the woman I was always meant to be—
a vessel for your suffering,
a living monument to your pain.

The anniversary of your death approaches like a storm cloud on the horizon,
dark and ominous,
and I find myself preparing for it,
bracing for impact,
knowing that the grief will wash over me anew,
that the wound will reopen,
that the pain will be as fresh as it was on that day.

I have your letters,
the ones you wrote to me when you were first diagnosed,
filled with hope and determination,
with promises of a future that would never come,
and I read them sometimes,
a form of self-flagellation,
a reminder of all that has been lost.

The dreams are the worst,
vivid and real,
in them you are alive,
healthy,
whole,
and I wake with the taste of hope in my mouth,
only to have it turn to ash when reality sets in,
when I remember that you are gone,
that it was only a dream.

I have started to see you everywhere,
in the face of a stranger on the street,
in the voice of a cashier at the grocery store,
in the laughter of a child in the park,
and each time,
my heart leaps with hope,
only to crash back down when I realize it is not you.

The anger is a fire that burns inside me,
a rage against the injustice of it all,
against the god who allowed this to happen,
against the universe for its indifference,
against you for leaving me,
against myself for being the one who survived.

I have started to collect things,
objects that remind me of you,
a locket with your picture,
a scarf you used to wear,
a book you loved,
creating an altar to your memory,
a shrine to the dead,
a testament to the fact that I am still among the living.

The darkness has become a comfort,
a cloak I wrap around myself,
a shield against the brightness of a world that no longer makes sense,
and I find myself seeking it out,
drawing the curtains,
turning off the lights,
sitting in the silence,
waiting.

I think about death often,
about what it would be like,
to join you,
to be reunited,
to escape this prison of grief,
to finally be at peace,
and the thought is not frightening,
but comforting,
a promise of release.

The bridge calls to me sometimes,
a siren song of concrete and steel,
a promise of oblivion,
of reunion,
of peace,
and I find myself drawn to it,
standing at the edge,
looking down at the water below,
wondering.

I have your last words,
written on a scrap of paper,
a message of love and hope,
a plea for me to live,
to be happy,
to find joy,
and I try,
god how I try,
but every day feels like a betrayal,
every moment of happiness a disloyalty to your memory.

The guilt is a constant companion,
a voice in my head that whispers,
„Why you and not her?“
„Why are you still here?“
„What right do you have to breathe when she cannot?“
And I have no answer,
no defense,
only the crushing weight of survival.

I am unraveling,
coming apart at the seams,
the threads of my sanity pulling away one by one,
and I am not fighting it,
not resisting,
but welcoming it,
embracing it,
as a welcome release from the agony of being alive without you.

The end is coming,
I can feel it,
like a change in the weather,
a shift in the atmosphere,
and I am ready,
prepared,
eager,
to join you,
to be reunited,
to finally be at peace.

Soon, Mother,
soon,
I will come home to you,
and we will be together again,
in death,
as we were always meant to be,
as we will be,
forever.

The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
even months after you’ve turned to ash.

Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
like a ghost trying to hold on.

I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
and my fingers come away cold,
so cold,
as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.

The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
each capsule a tombstone marking another day
you slipped further away from me.

I watched you waste,
watched cancer eat you from the inside out
like a ravenous beast I couldn’t name or fight.
Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.

And I stood by,
useless,
helpless,
praying to a god who wasn’t listening,
while you became less and less,
until you were nothing but bone and suffering
and eyes that begged for release.

Why you and not me?
Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
Survival feels like a betrayal,
like I’ve stolen the breath that should have been yours.

The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
a future I’m already living without you.
I smash the glass,
watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
who couldn’t save you.

The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
whispering that I should have done more,
said more,
been more,
but it’s too late for anything but this
this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.

Darkness has become my only companion,
the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
I walk through our house at night,
touching your things,
inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
pretending for just a moment that you’re still here.

But morning always comes,
bringing with it the brutal reality
that I am alone,
that you are gone,
that the cancer didn’t just take your body
but hollowed out my soul as well.

I hear you calling sometimes,
not with words but with the memory of your voice,
and I follow the sound toward the edge,
toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
where I might finally join you,
finally escape this prison of survival.

The razor glints in the bathroom light,
promising reunion,
promising peace,
promising an end to this agony of being alive
when the one who gave me life is gone.

Soon, Mother,
soon I’ll come find you where the pain can’t reach us,
where cancer can’t follow,
where we can be together again
in the silence of the grave,
the only place that feels like home anymore.