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.

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.

"I'll live in you if in the sea I die."
As I finished reading that verse, a pause was enough for our sight to tangle.
I moved closer to her, and there it was.
Our lips restarted the play they once had done.
Moving completely opposite but still perfectly synchronized, accompanied by a melody of aligned breathing.
I held her hand and it commenced.
The same way waves crash on rocks she came knocking down my doors and opened Pandoras box.
In the middle of sights that let scape crumbles of my soul I whispered words that I now remorse myself from saying.
"Did you miss me?"
"So much. Did you miss me?"
"More than anything in this world."
Two idiots matching heartbeats that come from hearts that belong to someone else.
But who can blame us when we once were an immense universe trapped in a tiny bedroom.
Together we discovered what it was like to be in love for the first time and how it felt to fall out of it.
This sempiternal feeling packed within seconds of that dance our lips performed.
And that last kiss was enough to break my whole world.
Yes, I know. It could be all an illusion from the alcohol, but I would drown in gin if that meant I could feel my heart beat that way once again.

And here I am, standing in the verge of limbo.
Who's calling me?
"There's two voices"
What are they saying?
"Come save me"
Whose voices' are they?
"The voice of your first love"
"No. Do not listen to it, it's from your last love"
And whose voice do I follow?
"The one your heart dictates to follow"
What if it's guided by memories?
"Follow your first love"
What if it's guided by the future?
"Follow your last love"
And what do I say?
"Forgive me"
To Whom?
"Both"
What for?
"You've betrayed them both"
Who says so?
"Me."
And what do you know about betray?
"More than you know"
If you know more than me, tell me which voice to follow.
"I can't"
Why?
"Because of the mind"
What is she saying?
"The opposite"
And what is that?
"Your problem"

What do you know about poetry if you've never been stranded in the desert of a woman's lips.
If you've never made her blood rush to her cheeks.
Or if you've never whispered a secret to her ear.

What do you know about poetry if you haven't gotten tangled in the tips of a woman's hair.
If you've never gotten lost in the infinity little universe of her eyes.
Or if you've never had her wandering around your mind for days.

What do you know about poetry if you've never written anything on a naked body with your tongue.
If you've never lead a performance with the orchestra of her breathing.
Or if you've never sealed a contract of two different world colliding by locking her hands with yours.

What do you know about poetry if you know nothing about lust.
What do you know about poetry if you know nothing about love.

When the day, you and the sun die I become someone different. I become whom I fear. The one with anxiety, the one who over thinks every little thing about his life. And my thoughts haunt me for seconds that last years, and I can't handle it. Not by myself, but what can I do if you're not there? What am I to do when I'm alone with the only person I'm afraid of... myself. And the voices come to my head telling me to talk to them, the ones who once held the heart your holding right now. To tell them that I haven't forgotten them just so they can give me a minute of comfort in this endless hours of darkness. The voices reach from my head to the tip of my fingers just to write these things that I don't even mean, because I only love you. But if there's anybody out there reading this...
If there's anybody out there hearing me screaming out loud in silence please help me carry this cross for the rest of the night...
Please do not help me, I will regret it in the morning. This is the real me speaking. Do not read these words, do not listen to these cries. Help me!
This battle is almost lost. Who are you to say who's the real one?
Help me get them out of my head.
Help me reach that one whose name starts with C.
No, please I am happy now, do not say anything.
Please, help me.
This is tearing me apart.
Help me.
Let us become one.
Help us!

They say that your pupils dilate 60% when you see something you truly love...
Well I saw her the other day,
She was holding hands with someone else.
What a surprise.
She saw me too,
I had a girl by my side,
Stepping on the same streets that once saw us together.
Through the same walls that were once against her back when we kissed.
Under the same sky that was our limit.
So many memories shared between two souls.
It seemed impossible to mute feelings like these,
But we did.
We stated at each other for one second,
No smiles,
No tears,
No sighs,
Nothing.
We saw each other like two strangers who know each other's stories would.
Two strangers that know each other's bodies better than their own.
Our eyes met for one second, can you imagine?
A sky,
An ocean,
A world captured in one insignificant second.
I thought the girl who hung from my arm was going to notice, but she didn't.
Did you know that your pupils dilate 60% when you see something you truly love?
That day my pupils grew to be the same size as the sun, and hers the size of the moon.
For one second they met and there was an eclipse, that's why the guy holding her hand and the girl hanging from mine found out about the world that unites us.
Our eyes betrayed us.
And is that even an idiot can tell that she has my mind twisted.

And it got to a certain point where I started liking pain. Because I came to think that I deserved it for doing all the crap I did. But that isn't true. The truth is that not even the devil deserves such kind of pain. And even less a simple demon like me.

I'm being thorn apart between the selfish feeling of anchoring by my side without going anywhere. And keep pretending like I'll save her from her hell.
Or setting her free and stay alone for the first time since I can remember. Which would mean I drown in my own thoughts and fears.
And how could I be the hero when I can't even save myself?

I once held an angel in my hands. She was the most luminous, beautiful and fragile creature my eyes have beheld. I could not wrap my head around the fact that someone like her could exist in the same universe as someone like me. The whole time I held her she looked fine. She looked comfortable. Whenever when I'd adjust my hands or move my arms she'd hold on to me even tighter. She always had the brightest smile. And I swear her eyes held all the light there is in the universe. She seemed happy in my arms. But one day I notice her wings had burn signs and had started to fall apart. I asked her if she was fine and without hesitation she said she was fine. But I knew I was the one who caused those scars. One day she was holding tight and with her big smile, and without warning I opened my arms. I will never forget the look on her face when I let go. She looked betrayed, hurt and even a bit disappointed. I tried to explain that it was for her own good. That I had held her down for too long. That things like me should be near creatures like her, for there's always damage to be done. I never saw her since then, but I pray to every god there ever was, there is and there will ever be that one day she understands that I did it for her.

I managed to control it.
I’ve helped you keep it within your walls,
But it has started to leak.
I can see a bit on your eyes.
When you kiss me I hint some on your lips.
It has corrupted your essence.
I can feel it as you walk past me.
It grows larger,
It’s wrapping around you,
I can already hear your short breathing.
Your body seems heavier.
Your footsteps get louder.
It has grown larger.


The Darkness.

I hate you so much.

He promised he'd always wait for her.
And he did, he kept his promise. Forever...
But she didn't promise she'd cameback
So she never did.

For you, my love only for you I painted autumn landscapes with thousands of colors over ashy mountains burned by my inner fire.

I painted you a blue sky under a golden sun reflected on giant mirrors of living water.
When my skies where as colorless as the eyes with which I looked at you.

I built trails so your feet wouldn't tire.
While I walked over paths of lust trying to make trails worthy of you to walk upon.

I killed every single woman in this world to show you that I only had eyes for you.
When behind your back and under the cover I gave my eyes, lips and passion to half of those women.

I recited you poems to your ear swearing that there was something about you hidden in them.
When every single word had the name of random women.

I composed you lullabies and I sang then to you as a poet.
When in my mind there was nothing but regret, a coward hiding behind doors, and a joust man trying to tear down that door to tell you things as they were.

You laid on my chest to hear the beating of my heart.
When in my chest I introduced a machine to mock the beat of a non-existent heart.

Every thought, every idea that you had, I broke my soul trying to make it happen rather than breaking your heart telling you the truth.

I loved you so much that I kept my hell to myself.  I put up a show of a fairytale before your eyes.

And is that you never deserved to see the other side of the coin.
I loved you with such intensity that I made up another reality to see you smile as much as I could.
But the body and soul of a mortal can only do so much..
And mine succumbed.

That's why when you were close to finding out I pushed you away and I left.
Because I prefer you staying with a good memory than with the bad mouth taste of my hell.

Because in the world there has never been, is, nor there'll never be someone purer than you.
My arms wont hold such light.
My eyes won't ever behold such paradise.
And I will never belong to someone else but you.

You say she doesn't love me, that I should forget about her.
But, do you even know what love is?
Do you have any idea what you are asking me for?
If God tells me to forget her, I'd tell God no.
And if in punishment for my impious blasphemy he snatches her from me, then I **** myself, go to heaven and take her from him.

And I am here, in my hell, staring at that vague ray of light coming out of the dark tunnel. And it becomes brighter as I read poetry in your ear when you're all the way on the other side of the moon.

Our love story passed so fast that a star saw us pass by and wished upon us.

Good morning my sweet girl is time for you to take a shower and cry the rest of your heart out because of that guy who isn't worth half of a tear. Open the faucet completely so your parents can't hear your hopeless cry.
The shower is over, step out of it and dry every single part of your body, including your soul. I'm not sure if a towel will be enough to do so.
Then put on your mask of shades and dusts on your face, that one you call makeup. Put it in, become someone else. Some shades over here, a little bit of lipstick and voilá! No trace of a tear.
Now the most important part, smile, my dear. Smile as if you were truly happy. Pretend that you don't give a **** about anything or anyone. Pretend that how you look expresses your inside. Prettend that you never cry, that your life is amazing and that you're a bad girl.
Lie, lie to everybody. Lie to your mom about not wanting to go to school anymore. Lie to your friends about that guy who's crying for you. Lie to the world... But you can't lie to yourself. And for you that part is  the worst.

If you've ever stayed up until 4 am,
you're either lonely or in love.
And I don't know which one is worse anymore.

But she’s my north and south and
east and west.
She’s that first spring day,
and last autumn night.
She’s sunset,
and dawn.
She’s the cool rain in a hot summer day,
and a warm sunray in the coldest winter morning.
She’s the petrichor and the breeze of the sea.
She’s the biggest expression of love.
She’s herself.
But again.
She’s not mine.

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.