Sipping lean Rolling blunts
Lite like fireflys
Bottles pouring
Bodys dropping
when you hear da devil start
Roaring,

I don't want to be paid for what I want to do,
But I have to have a living.

You want to know what it feels like to be
broken,
broken isn't even the word to describe it,
shattered,
shattered heart,
shattered feelings,
shattered me.
3 AM drunk in the bathroom,
mascara running down my face,
thoughts of all the ways I could **** myself in this very moment.
But I'm already dead.
You have already killed me,
with the way you said you don't love me anymore.
You don't love me you say?
What about the time I brought you sunflowers just because I loved the way your eyes lit up once you caressed them in your arms,
or the time I blindfolded you,
and brought you the ocean,
and made you smell the fresh breeze of the sea because I told you the scent reminded me of you.
Was that not enough?
I gave you the world,
and what I got in return was the pain that struck me when you told me you didn't love me.

When love isn't madness
It's not love

People confuse me,
I never want to be the way they are.
I never want to be the way I am,
I confuse myself.

--

To all bone fragments of Galeria Del Osario*

1.
I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.

Place you like a butterfly in a frame, looking alive but dead of course. Place you like how numbers are arranged from 1 to infinity (but who cares to count?) Place you like how chaos displaced darkness. Place you in the tip of a glacier knowing that the entire block will just disappear in a decade or two.

Like how climate tries to displace us. Our trace will soon be forgotten.

2.
Surely, the climate is too rigid between us;  two beings who found separation in all degrees of telekinetic attractions. For two beings who found shelter in the anonymity of chance. Chance to meet. Chance to declare once and for all the unfolding of luck.

Did luck really unfold or it was just me who hoped?

3.
Time is the bare witness to all tragedies, say two lovers who never found the consolations of fate. Time is the curse of the flesh, the rotting wisdom of conscience.

Time flees. Time forgets. Time remembers.

4.
By all means, the world is too small. Sometimes we wage war to small dimensions seemingly large. Where are we by the time that the world collapses into a small room? Where are we when the room pretended to be small but the gap between us is a year, light years perhaps.

Nomads, we are not. We cannot call any cave a home.

After all, what sort of space would cater us?

5.
A massacre happened 43,000 years ago. No one cares to remember. Nine of them were killed by new comers. El Sidron witnessed the coldest crime. If only tears can shed their fate, can we cry for them?

Who cares to write their memories? Who cares to paint their thoughts? Who cares to count their broken bone fragments in the caves?

I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.