Waste

Kissing you, knowing... that you don't deserve any of my kisses. That they're tasteless to your mouth.

Giving you the silk of my skin, that you receive like something to be found anywhere.

Giving you the treasure of my tears when you fuck me. You'll find it odd at some point, and then you'll forget.

That I was giving myself to you, and agreeing that a minute later I'd be just waste.

The man (Ode to a woman)

Indulged myself with an evening in which words were unleashed and voiced out to wander among the corners of some street and an audience faithfully gathered for the event.

It felt so right. First of all, because it was Monday, and I was tuned in. Then, I got the chance to talk to some people I hadn't seen in a while. And most importantly, there was some learning for me to take back home.

And some surprise... The one that got me bursting into tears as an unavoidable reaction to an individual conscience I thought wouldn't, by any means, lie on earth: a man; the least of the poets, but making sense of it all, with his humble words. My barriers just dropped down in the moment he asked all of those present, what makes a man reject, many times out of habit, a woman's worth.

I'm so glad there is at least one woman so privileged by the company of someone who knows what he's got.

Now my schemes are torn apart, and the search continues.

20.17

My mum would have made a good doctor. She checks our already gone grandmother for pulse and looks at her watch with the most aseptic look. And tells us the time: eight seventeen.

I keep up with my agenda. I come and I go, and in between the gaps, I see things like
nonsensitive messages in even pointless wreaths
self-controlled crying, as well as excessive
faces that weren't around when it mattered
that stupid religious drama i have seen before, and that i'll have to swallow again

Come friday and i get to my flat. And at last, I'm conscious.
It has been a couple of weeks now, and black still feels just fine. I'm just so sure when I think it's all for nothing.
I don't see the point in positivity.
It never ends well.
It never ends.

Keeping it all up just out of habit, but once you stop to think about it, all sense, all purpose, just blurs away.

And this is when, in anguish, I wonder, why do we do what we do, when kindness isn't expensive at all.
I guess not everyone has walked under the sun just hours after losing something they know won't ever be coming back. Knowing that every new day, every new bloody minute we walk, we keep losing.
I guess my mum knew that very well, when she had been struggling against time on that afternoon, and never gave up until the very end.

I don't know if life is fortune. All I know is that we owe.

Vividly (of plants and dreams)

My head works fast and I'm terrible with plants. Those are some truths that must be added to the particular list of being me.

I am having a very busy week on dreaming. First, a tall, beautiful plant on the place my grandma slowly let life leave... (I think about you so much).

Then my sister and I, sharing like sisters are supposed to...

All that while my cactuses keep dying (just like the one I gave to her on her birthday did).

I remember vividly when my ex boyfriend first came into my new "home", bringing in the beautiful bucket with six green, prickly babies to be taken care of. Yesterday, several months without knowing about him, I buried the fourth one. I keep thinking that they're the shadow of him, also going away. They're not dying because of us. I just don't take care of them properly, I guess. And that makes me feel even more guilty.

I also dreamed about the one I'm "seeing" now (that's the way he put it...). My unrequited love, helping me find something I had lost, and telling me he wanted to share his life with me. A dream, it was.

Today, with the clearness of a new day, I'm trying to bury the thought of last night's dream, as I resolutely feed the idea of saying goodbye to the things that will never come to life. Or not anymore.

Today I celebrate

...The birthday of someone very dear to me.

I never really got to know him well.

I don’t even know how old he is exactly.

We actually spent a very tiny part of our lives with each other.

But I remember every single one of the times we shared. I treasure them and I unwrap them only on special times, when I desperately need to hear that voice again –me on the other side of the line, crying –, saying:

«Don’t wait. Not five minutes. Call me. And I’ll be there».

I think I’ll reach the grave with those words carved in my heart, so deep.

When I knew, at that very moment, that he wouldn’t actually be there.

When I knew, at that very moment, that he’d never leave me.

He went away, all of a sudden, and we never shared one more of those moments which made me grow confident, wiser, happier.

I never told him how grateful I am for having him believing in me, treating me like we were equal. Teaching me, and protecting me.

I wish he knew how big the corner I keep deep inside for him, and how glad I am to know from him every now and then.

So I’m just going to say thank you.

Thank you for the privilege of your company.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts, your dreams, your wisdom, with me.

Thank you for your kindness.

Thank you for your trust.

Thank you for all the lines you’ve inspired.

And happy birthday. I hope you’re happy for the rest of your life.

Let it be quick

Shall I still cope with injustice, let me understand it.

Shall they keep lying to me on my face, let them be aware. Very.

Shall he go, let him go fast. Let me run him away, dance him away as quick as possible.

Shall death come around again soon, let it be quick and silent.

Shall the little things I still trust collapse, let me go too. Quickly. Silently.

Shall I not move away just yet, from this unappealing, unfitting world, let me keep my legs, so I can run. My ears, so I can listen.

A very few things

There are just a very few things I'll keep out of this forgettable year of my existence.
One of them is your breath in my skin, when I already stopped believing.

Little gifts

It seems like, no matter how long it's been, you illuminate me. You're like little gifts, spread unevenly (but firmly) along our own private existences.

You always say hello. And always light my day, whatever is going on.

I think I should find a moment, a little corner among all this stress and all these running clocks, to tell you how yours you made me that day, and how much you've been to my thoughts ever since.

Slow

Dylan's unique melodies surround the house and the thin air is bringing them to me.
The sun burns my back, tenuously, as I sip my tea, so unconcerned of the time passing by (and all those things I had to do today...).
I close my eyes and picture you in my head, turning me around and rubbing your lips on my neck - and me letting go, despite knowing what comes next...
I definitely can't help it. I want my taste buds to carefully taste you all over (all this moisture, all this warmth).
I want you to come along with me on this particular trip to remembering that time doesn't really exist.

Some truths

My skin is bruised and old.

I don't consider it a gift or a privilege.

But you're not asking, either.

The bounds of what I can endure are narrow.

And you seem to have all the time in the world ahead of you.

I am not fun.

And you're game.

I wait for things to happen.

And so do you... 

I need someone who really cares.

And you don't seem to care at all.

I give. I fight. I expect.

And I wonder if there's anyone out there who does it, too.