Although sometimes I’ve killed you in my writings.
There has been nights where I resucitate you.

Ok. I've cracked it.
I know what it is that attracts me to this girl and it is nothing but physical appearance, like most.
She doesn't know what my favorite color is, she never asked me what mine is.
I know what hers is, I know what time she looks at the sunsets, and at that time she texts me in
the morning. I know her eye color and what she bleeds. I know every sentiment she got
throughout the day, but does she?
Does she know what I go through and at what hour?
Does she care at least what my favorite color is, and why is it gray?
Does she care about my degree and why would I pursue a higher education to give her a good
life?
Does she really care about me?
No
She doesn't care
She cares about the way I make her feel
She cares how much I care about her needs and that's it.
So I cracked it.
This is why she loves me texting her drunk. So I can tell her how special she is, without being
special. Everyone was right. It was infatuation. But how? I am not manic. I should not be like
this. My meds are working, and god is in his heaven, so everything is good. So how. How do I
care so deeply about someone so hollow?
So I cracked it.
This is it. Even if she lies with me, even if she holds my hand, even if she tells me she likes
me…
This is my first heartbreak.
Isn't that amazing?
My first time realizing someone doest like me the way I like them.
And she never has and she never will, but this should be good.

In every romantic interaction I've ever had with a woman. I've always had the upper hand. Even those times where it seemed as if I was going to lose. I always ended up dealing with the cards. Up until now. This one time, I am the one waiting for their turn. I am at a handicap. It is frustrating, even humbling, being at the mercy of someone while being vulnerable.

Is this what people feel? What it's like to take a leap of faith when it's a matter of the heart? I tend not to take such risks, and maybe it is why I've never really been in love. But how can someone enjoy the ride so much when you're sitting on the edge of a world that could collapse at any second? How do you give so much with no safety net?

Maybe I've been a shallow person my whole life, but this all sounds to me like the perfect cocktail for one thing and one thing only.

A broken
                Heart.

Anyways. You will all hear about it later.

I write to the only people who can commit genocide and get away with not writing it in their own history books.
To the "winners".
To you, Anglo that support military intervention that destabilize entire countries just so you can keep a cheap labor force to come clean your **** every two weeks or whenever Ms. Smith thinks is adequate.
To you that split my continent in two.
To you that still assassinate our leaders.
To you that incite violence in foreign lands.
To you that have been breaking in and looting our homes for centuries and then complain when we move in next door.
To you that blindly follow uncle Sam.
To you that rise walls instead of bridges
To you who close your doors to the land of our cousins Navajo.
To you, who sit in every corner to stuff your faces with food made by the hands you hate.
To you, who sit in the sun for hours to have our skin color, but without the prejudice.
To you, who still gets offended because we're not separated anymore.
To you, who still seek to divide us.

This is for the cowboys that tip their hats to tell you good morning and when twilight falls they put their hoods on and kneel on a black brother's neck.

And that's another thing.

You turned your back on half of your people.
People who have been forgotten for decades living in projects.
People who are rotting in jail for committing a crime that could've gone unpunished if only they didn't have so much pigmentation in their skin.
Did you forget already that it was them who looked after your home?
Did you forget that it was them who sowed your cotton fields?
Or that they built all your monuments?
Did you forget that they fought beside you to stop a genocide in Europe all while still silently crying theirs?
Did you forget that it was them who raised your ancestors? And if it wasn't for the lumberjack they would've raised you too.

But I do not speak to all anglos.
There's some I want to thank.
Those who have helped me more than my own brothers.
Those who welcomed me with open arms
Those who without letting out a laughter, tried to decipher what I was trying to tell them.
Those who wants us here because they get it.
Those who use their privilege so injustices reach the ears of the ignoramus who sits on the left wing of the house that was once the home of the lumberjack.

Those are the real sons of Washington.

You are just a bunch of sons of *******.

Esta década he perdido al amor de mi vida.

Y puedes decir que soy joven, pero no, mi estimado lector.

Uno nace con un instinto que registra la entrada de el verdadero amor a nuestras vidas.
Instinto que hace incapaz la acción de olvidar dicho amor ya tenga uno 17, 35 o 60 años de edad.

Perdón, querido lector, debe estar cansado ya de escuchar la misma historia, de oír la misma canción de desamor pero es la única que tengo y la única que en verdad importa.

Sabe usted lo que es perder el amor de su vida a los veinte años de edad?
Saber que me queda toda una vida por delante, pero una vida con el vacío del tamaño de la luna.
Una vida que viviré en la sombra de un "como habría sido con ella..."

Con la vida que llevo hubiese podido ser feliz con ella al menos cincuenta años más.
Sin importar dónde, hubiese podido tenerla en mis brazos por 18,262 noches.
Podría haber vivido 438,288 horas de tranquilidad sabiendo que es ella quien me espera en casa.
Hubiese podido saber que era mía hasta el último momento que mi mirada le buscara para que una última vez me llenara de paz como solo ella sabía hacerlo.

Y eso es lo más triste, querido lector,

Yo no sabré que calles ella pisa.
Que cafés frecuenta ni con quien.
No sabré que atardeceres mira.
Ni sabré quién le abre la puerta.

Ella no sabrá dónde vivo.

Lo peor de todo es que no me vera morir.

The dictionary defines "saudade" as: a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia.

I define it with your name.
Your name that out of respect and pain I do not mention.

Your name that carries my world within.
You are the artist who made me this way.
My whole life was built around you, but you left before such thing was completed so I feel lost without you.
I do not know what my place in the world is.
You are are my east, my south, east and west, but you're not where I am.
I've been wandering inside of these dark walls that crawl under my skin and eat away my hope for so long and there's not a sight of your light to be found.
It's been long years since you've turned off your lighthouse.
I'm lost.
I've ended at some shores, but none feel like home.
so if you ever see me wandering around in your dreams please hug me because saudade de você.

Every night I write about you a piece of me falls off.
So I've written this without my sanity, because you took it when you left.
I lost my head about two years ago, but with pure muscle memory I can assure you I would say something between these lines...

I shall never love the way I loved you nor will I even forget you. For I shall never love with such youth and passion the way I loved you.

It has been so long since the last time I've met a soul that is worth wasting hours of sleep upon.
How long has it been since I've seen innocence reflected on my pupils.
Where would the muses whom inspired masterpieces of poetry be?
Or at least someone who can alleviate the ache of writing without a reason.
Where's my Venus?
Where's my Beatrice?
Or can someone just send me a Valkyrie to take me away from this impulsive feeling of digging through languages looking for a pretty rhyme.
Infinite words drop from my heart at the beat I walk through this somber streets.
Blank verses that I let slip through my fingers that if carved in image of the right maiden they could achieve their potential and shine.
How long ago has it been since I haven't polish something worth to show the whole world.
And it is that maybe I'm looking for them in the wrong places.
Maybe she is hiding in a corner of a library dying her soul red with some baroque literature.
Maybe she is hanging dreams from the tips of her hair reading Calderon de la Barca.
Or she could be painting countless worlds on her eyelids with some Marquez...
Yes, that could be it. 
Maybe she is hidden between heart and shadow.
And I am here wasting myself away, walking through these ****** streets with three black clouds hovering above me, and two ravens singing along about lack of love.