Head pulsing; eight o'clock,
hair pulling has to stop,
burning purple, dull eyes,
barely breathing, sleep deprived,
drowning bodies cannot rest,
bandaged up,
what a mess;
pressure building and collapsing,
draining, lazy, and containing-
*nothing.

Where would I be,
had I decided my fate earlier?
Changing timelines,
feeling sadder,
or maybe not at all;
would my life be nothing
like it is now,
gunking up my flow,
like a wounded baby's crawl?

Would I even be myself?
(Or was I ever really?)
Could I remember how to feel?
(Other than just dreary?)
Should I even bother caring?
(When it calls to me so clearly?)

Well,
they say fate determines all,
others claim free will,
but have they considered
compromising skills?
Because I know I caused my path,
and I made it pre-determined,
as without my desires,
my future isn't certain.
So to question what my past
may have had to offer
is to question my own
mind, self, and author.

Preguntame por qué la luz no la hará brilla,
o de qué manera
los arboles encinar transformaron
a ceniza y polvo,
consumen en el fuego,
y por qué nadie oyendo los gritos del bosque
llegaron para pagar sus respetos.

Estas soldados de madera necesitaron lluvia,
como lágrimas a la faz de una viuda afligida,
para calmar las llamas,
entonces, tomaron gotas de agua para pacificar sus dolores,
y en la noche, cuando todos era silencio
ellos dormían en el viento sin ansia,
como es el estado natural para madre tierra.

English version:
Ask me

Ask me why the light won't shine,
or how
the oak trees transformed
into ashes and dust,
consumed in the fire,
and why no one, hearing the cries of the forest,
came to pay their respects.

These wooden soldiers needed rain,
like tears in the face of a grieving widow,
to calm the flames,
so, they took drops of water to pacify their pains,
and at night, when all was silent
they slept without anxiety in the wind,
as is the natural state for Mother Earth.

He knew the importance of words
and treated life like a crossword;
taking hints and context to places
that he never knew were possible,
solving them faster than his mind could keep,
he was full of it,
and every letter got him closer
to his dreams of entitlement.

Oh you've solved it, all right,
but his genius was limited,
nothing but words on a page;
The puzzles? He'd just skimmed it,
and each box became his defeat
for his words would no longer speak.

He could only solve the same book;
shoulders up, blamed his luck
on his limited palette,
maybe he'd done better if he invested
in a thing like vocabulary.

A forgotten mission, a new edition,
blew around in his mind,
but somehow he never could manage
to find the time
to understand these riddles' complexity,
and so to this challenge, *he'd flee.

You call me sunshine
and there are days I'd believe it,
but others I don't.

When my mind is so cloudy
I can't think at all
or when I process far too much
and it clashes in thunderous claps,
or when my tears block my view,
pouring, dribbling into its final trickle,
you say it.
How could you call me sunshine then?

You mean to say that behind all that,
nothing changes?
Surely an object cannot be an object if its properties change.

Yet you have the audacity to say otherwise,
that I can still be sunshine even when the night has fallen,
and the stars take my place,
because who else would illuminate the moon had it not been true?

So maybe I'll believe you.

Sweetheart,
I'm thriving.

It's impossible for our lips to meet,
just once,
without waiting for their next venture,
and how unreasonable it is
to stop
when your taste lingers:
unforgettable,
demanding,
and desirable.

Oh how I could never leave
your kiss of life,
enchanting,
as it draws me close,
our skin brushing against each other;
and how unforgiving it would be
to let such an organic touch die
without savoring its movements.

Let it be heard,
my love,
that I am truly living.

The thick, jet-black sky was teeming with stars,
each one twinkling to the beat of our hearts,
ba thump,
ba thump,
ba thump,
and danced when our hands trailed too close,
my frigid fingertips trailing across his hot palms,
trying timidly, feverishly, to reach equilibrium.

His tenacious coffee-brown eyes animated,
stirring at the very hint of my voice,
(a mere mouse squeak) as I looked away,
pawing at my arm, fidgeting my words
into mush in front of him,
letting them drop to the seat of the bench like
unfortunate jelly spilled at a picnic,
sticky and clumped, indecipherable,
languorously trailing from my lips
and dripping downward
to the cool-grey concrete slabs
bolstering us up among the night.

It was tedious.
He knew it would be
as he beamed back,
still watching my words flow
like molasses, so dense and viscous
they never came.

He kissed me.

Had I expected it,
I might've stopped him,
tried to make it more artificial,
more methodical, contracted,
mechanical, but I didn't.
I couldn't.

The feeling pressed through me
like a current,
an electric shock pulsing,
refusing to stop until it hit my core,
reverberating through my chest,
forcing my eyes open.

Taking advantage of this moment
he teased, knowing I couldn't speak,
not then,
not now,
not after this;
when I looked back at him,
his gaze was much calmer,
more delicate,
and his laughter floated off
like feathers.

I kissed him.