there's a difference

between the one that begins in the place
where you were left standing, isolated
the tip of the cliff crumbling apart
below your sodden feet
nothing short of curated, cremated
feels like it was yesterday: not far

or the one happening where you are standing
convinced that there's more beyond
the enemy line,
the horizon should shine
every day for you, once and for all
(but it feels like it's raining slime)

maybe the one that should happen
the place where you will be standing
in a measure of time no one knows
like the back of their hand,
because it flows
      irregularly
and it breaks all the tiny ice
under your feet, the ***** looks steep
cushioning your fall into The Big Deep.

little girl wants to climb mountAins
     as high as the pitch produced
         when she arches back her back
     and lets herself be taken care of
  all the strains and pains of her human remains gone, never to be thought of again


the kind of high that pours out of her.
commercial golden drugs created for
pleasure,
never to be measured
by those who'd prefer to use her like a tap
clackitty clack
the better me is not for the likes of you to touch, hands are not yours to unclasp

receive her willing kindness
and beware men who would strip it away
forget about modern daily pressure
let your problems wash astray
in the sea that has become
the only home for someone so gray

how can someone
still look pretty
while she's sinking
she was singing

and they didn't go away, no
in fact it seemed they grew stronger
but the wind in her hair did too
and her confidence grew
until her pose was enough to scare                                                            ­ monsters away

i
am
enthralled
by the way she stares down the world

do i renounce my will & my ways?
is this the point of no return?
am i falling hard into doughnut-like-smelling glace?

am i doomed as the forsaken one? do i need to shun Your Grace?
shall i wake you up in a minute,
with cold tea and easterly-brewed eggs?

am i supposed to never let old habits prevail?
does the sole pen feel the need to shine in moonlight?
or am i mistaken (in need of ginger ale)?

do people really write less when things go their way?
why must i hate the sappy?
(how could i convey the same?)

so tell me, my darling, am i willing to take the bait?
is your warmth going to last forever?
will i come back to my previous stage?

my euphoria lasted as much as her last cigarette
the one she put in her pocket
at the risk of burning her favourite jacket
all in the name of reaching for something
that was definitely already there

espigas de trigo en sus pestañas;

ella es
aquel campo
al que te gusta ir
para ver la
puesta de
sol

i could see the sun setting
in the rearview mirror on her motorcycle
as i held on tight to myself and to her
i witnessed the sun rise on the other side of the road

scribbling
feels like i'm dig, dig, digging
into my brain
which is stupid 'cause i'm writing
letters that have no name.

my feather has been posed for far too long; ink has blotted all that i forgot
the opportunity to write has passed
and i'm left speechless in the absence
of all that was meaningful

different heartbeats
felt in different places.
resonate within
my eyes
my head
my wrists
my neck.

i have yet to discover what it means
and why i can't feel it
where it's supposed to be

in my headspace, the way words sound
on your friendly passionate tongue
darling, it makes them sound almost french
and i think that they shouldn't;
even though they do, and i know so too
i love how words sound when they are coming out of you

i
have
failed
myself

unfortunately, it was all i had left

pins and needles and *******'s blaze
out-of-body-experience leaves me trembling for days

today i am angry
drawing strengh from courageous role models that I've never resembled

not
      one
              bit

even in my anger i am able to look around
and see other people's second eyes
staring
right back at me with the same fiery hate

i am
astounded
as to how we can all be so unhappy
and not be able to find the solution
as to why we secretly
hate
(each other)

in a world of able bodies
are you able to perform me?
reaching into deepness & honey
the bass in our voice sounds lovely
but some treble is, quite frankly,
the one thing that we find lacking
in our mono-universal cell beats
in our silly English breakfast tea
reach into the tranquil divided personality
and pull out a couple vodkas & martinis
a long night awaits us out in the city
the elder travellers used to whisper quietly
but now they're just dust-