Naked .

Clothes.
Wearing them,
Not wearing them.
Envelopes.

Plastic figurines,
That worth more if they’re in boxes.

Right?

We sell ourselves like
Dolls on shelves.

Naked is nothing but another envelope.

It’s not what you wear
(Or not)
What defines you.

It’s the thought.
Speak, love, hate.
Then, you’ll be vulnerable.

Anuncios

I’ve heard .

I’ve heard some people,
some lots of people.
I’ve heard them cryin’,
heard them laughtin’
heard them choking
at my words.

I heard them sending me to hell
for all the things i’ve said
i’ve read
i’ve thought
i’ve lived.

Hell.

What they call hell.
It’s inside me.
It’s inside you too.
Hell is all the things you’re not able to say.

All those thoughts that drawn
on a sea a procrastination
and good behavior.

All those things you are
dying to try.

But you don’t dare.

That’s what hell is.

Hell, is all around you.

Hell is the pagliacci
that cries over his wife body.
The Harlequin
that stole a woman’s heart.
A child who lost his way home.
Hell is a desperate woman,
trying to make a living on someone else sheets.

Hell is what you make for a living.

Hell is inside me,
but no when i think
of pleasure,
or measure.

Not when i speak freely
of sex, politics or mercy.
Not when i curl my hair,
and put on a lipstick.

Hell is the thought
that i get when i
can’t walk alone at nite.
When i’m too scared to move.

Hell is when memories
came back like livin’ things.

Hell is inside me only then.
Hell is always inside us.

And all the demons are human.

Grace .

I’m no angel.
I’m not a cherry blossom at Hanami.
I’m not a tender kiss.

I’m a gunshot at three am,
With your mother crying
Layed down in the kitchen,
Bleeding.

I’m a broken window in cold winter.

I’ve fallen from grace,
with the elegance of a maple leaf,
A broken neck,
A silent cry.

Yet thee finds me lovely.
He sees through the rain and thunder,
A frightened child.

I can’t see the sky
Through the storm within
But you will hear the echo.

Yet he would hear me.

Mine .

You are not mine
Yet i’m yours.

I’ve been in relationships
On and off with myself before
And it sucked.

I try and i try,
‘Cause i know (i wish)
That if i work hard enough
You will see me as i do,
That you will care for me,
Same way i do for you.

That you will cherish,
Stand for me,
Be proud of me.
And above all, be grateful.
That of 7 billion humans,
I choose you.

To love you.
To respect you.
Everyday.

And yet to be heartbroken by you,
Willing that you’ll never have to,
Even thou
you keep on working in that.
Even thou i know (i wish)
You don’t try to.

But you are not mine.
Yet i am yours.

Voice .

I haven’t slept in 30 hours, and i don’t see it coming soon.

I cannot sleep, and i’m barely eating.

I feel like my whole body is made of wet sand,

and my skin is some cheap balloon,

electrifying static.

I can see how my thoughts start,

like a spark in the middle of nowhere,

and end up right there, being less than nothing.

Insignificant amounts of wasted energy.

I feel the heaviness of sorrow and loneliness

on my back, like if i were carrying some cripple.

I see my patience like a wast field of absolute nothing.

I can feel how my voice breaks,

before it’s able to reach out.

Like a tree falling when noone’s listening.

I trade my voice for sorrow.

I let myself fall in love with depression.

That sweet, perfect, kind, seductive lack of dopamine.

It’s funny though…

It’s suppose that i should feel sleepy when i’m out of it!

But between you and I,

is that voice, HIS voice, the one that doesn’t let me sleep.

Running .

I’m running.
The sun is up, the wind blows.
The perks of being human,
Are vanished.
I’m truly happy now.

I look back and you are there, smiling.
I stop, marveled.
Astonished by the glow in your eyes.

We stare at each other like there are nothing left in life.

And then

I woke up.

Teléfono.

Suena “Beat it”,

irónico.

Nadie me llama por teléfono. La gente habla por whatsapp, por messenger, por hangouts… Pero ya no llaman. A mi me gusta eso, del “Che, boludo, cómo estás?”. Dejar de multitaskear tanto, y sentarte a mirar el techo mientras gesticulás al aire, por que estás hablando por teléfono.

Pero nada, la cuestión, es que a mi no me llama nadie. Excepto hoy, que me llamó mi papá. No hablo nunca de mi papá, es verdad. Desde que me fui de casa hablé dos veces nada más, ésta es la segunda.

Suena “Beat it”,

irónico.

Miré el teléfono desentendida, igual lo atendí bien obvio. Hablamos como seres civilizados de cosas triviales, como gatos y guiones. Pero todo el tiempo, con una lágrima en la cumbre del ojo, esperando a hacerse tan pero tan gorda, que el propio peso de la gravedad la arrastre para abajo, en lugar de sus compatriotas, que se suicidan solas, una a una por encima de mi vía láctea de pecas.

La verdad no te la voy a decir. No te voy a decir que a pesar de todo lo que pasa y pasó, yo sigo esperando que mi papá venga un día y me abrace y me diga que me ama y que está orgulloso de mí. Y que nos pidamos perdón.

No.

Por que suena “Beat it”,

irónicamente.

No. Vamos a hablar bien, y el domingo voy a amasar fideos, quizás. Pero no te voy a decir que te extraño muchísimo. No es una cuestión de orgullo, sino, que no hay que andar diciendo cosas obvias. Vos sabés que te extraño, y lo sabés por que me vés la cara todos los días cuando te desviás del camino de la vuelta a casa para pasar por la puerta de mi trabajo.

Y como siempre, para bien o para mal en la historia, el silencio nos sirve como un cómplice. Y aunque vos no entiendas nada de lo que digo, y yo no entiendo de qué hablás vos; aunque no sepamos ser padre e hija. Seguimos escribiendo historias.

Ya no suena “Beat it”,
menos mal.

Heliophobia.

I have a great enmity declared to the Sun.

That’s no secret.

The Sun’s rays are stuck as venomous spines

to my eyes and skin.

I’m helpless.

His heat rapes me with eager and malice,

no matter how hard i try to escape,

he will always find me.

His light aches, and draws me numbness pain,

like a opiate to my soul and spirit.

It burns me like a branch on a Saturnalia fire.

It’s intoxicating,

it’s drowing.

Dissolves me.

It’s claustrrophic,

But outside the doors of my house.

After all,

i’m only Rain.

Special Needs

I’ve always wanted to be special.
Never actually knew why,
But it’s a need.
A carving need.

I need to be special,
To feel that i’m not wasted.
To feel that life as it is,
It’s worth it. Somehow.

I need to be special,
But really, really special for someone.
‘Cause i’ve never felt special just by myself.
I need it.

Never knew why.
But the carving need of being someone,
Worthing the time, and space, and love, and humanity…
It would probably make me feel a little bit human.

I need to be special to you,
Just the half,
of how special you
are to me.