Hot Pot Magazine

By Aren Şentürk

Green slippers at the entrance of the house,
And wet socks on the floor of the bathroom I’m in.
I sit on the ground while water soaks through my thin hair,
The razor I shaved my head with last night, stands next to me.
I look at it for a long time, think about the future

In the kitchen, boils a huge pot of milk.
Bloub bloub boils, or should I say bleeds?
Through bathroom vapours, it’s like a hand reaching out;
It will grab me by my collar, pull me to eternity
Says, don’t be afraid of the end, it will make you reach hope

Here, a mirror right in front of me
It’s unknown whether I recognize myself or not
One day that face becomes the closest
The other day it turns its back.

My dearest, mix up to the sea with your heavenly voice
Then come back to me like ships approaching the harbour
Let your return be as delicate as a leaf falling from a tree in autumn,
But as strong and full of hope as my mother’s hold

Take me in your arms, let me be me.
Feel my breath tickling your face while we kiss,
And please one last time, one last time,
Look at me with those brown wistful eyes.

Aren Şentürk is a 15 year old self-taught writer who loves long walks, plants
and drawing silly little faces on papers. Their daily activities are getting lost
among books, drinking chai tea with milk and thinking a while in the afternoons,
working on their poems and petting cats they see on the road. They also like soup a lot.