Will I be your Finch?
Will you be my Violet?
Can we wander together?

Am I the one over the ledge?
Or is it you?
Dying in silence.

‘I wanna die’ I said.
‘Take  me with you’ you replied.

You thought I was joking,
I knew you weren’t.

You are all I have
All I have to leave behind.

All I need. All we need.

But we still have so many places to go.
All the bright places we left behind
All the memories we haven’t yet formed.

I don't think I wanna go anymore.
Because I’d hate to see you follow me along.

"Brave”, “strong”, “decisive”.
You use these words to describe me,
in an attempt to console me.
Unaware that they are nothing more
than bandages covering my flaws to me.

Straps of fabric surrounding my scars,
hoping that if I can’t see them,
I’ll be able to forget them.

There was a black man on the street, asking for a handout.
The glass between his hands was empty
as he begged the people that passed by
who, ashamed, looked down and walked away.

They glanced at the black man,
and they saw a blade under his worn-out coat;
a man who wasted his money on ****, ***** and drugs;
someone who didn’t want to study.

What I saw was a desolate man.
Someone who had tried to live, but hadn’t been allowed to.
Someone who wasted his spare money on food to feed the
kids he had had because he couldn’t afford protection.
Someone who invested the little that remained
on Spanish lessons so he could thank the few people
who looked at him like he was human, real;
thank them for the five cents they gave him.
I saw a man who wanted to get off the street.

A sweet and desperate man.
A man that was born on the wrong side of the tracks.

A hard-working man.
I spared some change for him,
and he held my hand
(Gracias)
His touch was rough after working;0
rough after building the foundations
of the buildings where people
who looked down when he begged
lived in.

Don’t blame him when they tear down.

Can we talk
about those teens
who saw their lives
draining out of their hands
like sand falling back into the beach,
and instead of holding it tightly
against their chests
decided to blow it away
with the wind;
like a kid blowing his candles
far too fast
and extinguishing the fire
from his only birthday cake
until there was nothing left
to live?

Mindless eyes stare at screens
that follow code written long ago
into their tiny microchips.
Technology is like a drug;
a seed planted in the brain
that injects dopamine
when lit with the right
combination of RGBs.
It is watered by loneliness,
and the nutrients it takes
are the ones that make up happiness.
Eventually,  
when there is nothing left
the brain will rot
until we are all so ill
we end up throwing our bodies away;
we are the reusable pots
of our own inventions.

It pierced me with a loud blast,
demolishing the barricades I had built around my
heart made of glass.

It swept in through my weakest spot,
and tore down the walls I had built around myself.
After a few weeks, I stopped feeling the ache
but the hole the bullet left was relentless;
an unfading scar.

Don’t you ever
eat
out of tradition?
Like,
you are not hungry;
but not loaded either.
Your stomach is just
as numb as your heart.

But you still eat,
because food tastes good;
because they sat you down;
because you ought to;
because you’re used to the feeling.

Even when there is no joy
to the taste;
you eat.

Eat,
eat,
eat.

You did it so often
the action
must have lost all its meaning.

Semantic satiation.

I scratch my scars
peel them off.
Turn them into scraps.

They never stop bleeding
because I don’t want them to.
This poetry is made of pain,
a style nib dipped in blood.

Verses made of hatred.
of
   pain;
           of
   blood

Some people need a sunset
and a coffee
to find their words.

What I need
is to fill my body with my own aches
until
        there
                 is
and                nothing
      I                            left
        can
               dip
                      my
                            words
                                       in
                                     ­       it.

A fly lazily perched on my computer,
it brushed its legs against each other.
Like you used to.

I stared at its black eyes,
dark like your gaze when you gripped me by hand
and pulled me away into your bedroom.

I remember how dark the world seemed
when I shut my eyes,
counting every second.
Hoping that it’d make it fade,
make it stop,
make it less real.

But the fly’s legs were thin, fragile, small,
tiny the same way I felt powerless
when you were around.

And then the fly flew away.
It swept through the window, free.
Oblivious to my catching breath,
while I hyperventilated
trapped between the memories
of what you have already forgotten.

I found an order in the chaos,
a home inside the rubble
that I had turned my room into.

I hid inside my books,
trying to find somewhere where I belonged
in a place that had never been mine.

We are so fragile.
We could break at any moment.
God could leave us scattered on the ground
like broken, old, used toys.

God is like a child:
Tsunamis his tantrums.
Humans his marionettes.
Humans    
      are          
             God’s
         voodoo
    dolls.

And he plays with us;
He stitches red needles into our bodies.

I think there is nothing left in mine.
No filling.
No nothing.
I am empty inside.

Feelingless eyes flicker through the streets.
They see cars moving around.
Their owners blend with the vehicles
until society becomes nothing but a uniform machine.

A uniform, lonely, horrible machine.
Everything
         becomes
    gray.

you cup my heart;
enlacing it between
your fingers
with tender care.

you feel it’s beating;
as it is weirdly alive–
weirdly on fire–
above your palm.

so brush your thumb
against this igniting heart,
and press your lips
on it in a tender kiss.

as the only thing
keeping it beating
is the passion
that you coat it with.

I never understood the sentence
"I have my heart in my mouth."
Not until I tasted it,
not until I spit it,
not until the words got stuck in my throat
because I felt a weight on my mouth that didn’t let me breathe.

I didn’t understand the sentence
until I felt my chest empty
and its beating on my neck.
Until I cried because I couldn’t even talk.

I didn't understand what
"Having your heart in your mouth"
meant
until I found it there
and I had no one to turn to.

I sometimes wonder if I could make a poem out of all the metaphors
that have been scrapped because of what surrounded them.
If I could make a clique,
where they’d join strong
and leave their pasts.
Create a new country of love,
for all the unique metaphors
that died because they didn’t know better.

“I want to scream but forgot how to talk”

“The fear I felt drained in my blood
and I now have it tattooed in my tears”

“Opportunities that slip off your fingers
like fish in the depths of a lake”

“my fears were dissolved
into tears”

…

I'll always remember the mornings at home.
Where no one was happy, where everyone swore,
where sadness and anger mixed together and formed

a moody gray. Like the one in the sky before the sun came out
that almost looked blue against that house.
Probably because nothing could have had so little color
as a 7'am morning at home.

You lie and lie and lie over and over again.
Every lie, a post-it on your face, covering your body.

After so many lies
I can no longer recognize what is found behind.

They are your barricade,
but we all know that they are papercut.

And no matter how thick you make them out to be,
paper will never be wood again.

Why is being ‘shameless’
something bad
but ‘fearless’
a desired quality
when shame
closes doors
and fear
saves lives?

We always talk about
strength,
about pride,
about the hurt others caused;
we are the victims of our world
we look for pity.
for understanding,
we talk about the monsters
we didn’t unleash.

I want to talk about regret,
about the demons I’ve let out;
about the ache I burned in others hearts;
about the monster I’ve been in others
fairy tales.

I want to be raw
and true to myself.
I’ve never been good
or perfect,
or even alright.

My words have been like poison
and they have pounded in others’ hearts.
I have left people
to themselves
when they were at their worst.

I have used my power to hurt;
to insult.

There are people who carry pain
because of me.

And what is worse
is that I have denied forgiveness
to people
for things
I could have done.

I tweak stories
and tell lies
to make an angel
out of me.

I have excused
my actions
to myself,
to be able to close
both my eyes
when I sleep.

Sometimes I wonder
if I’d be
better off
dead.

My shoulders relax,
my muscles lighten
as I let go of a load
and say goodbye to the guilt
that had been crumbling inside;
I breath out
and feel the relief
burn down my throat.

In a year I’ll be so light I’ll reach the stars.

I wanna make ****** songs
to sing my poetry
but I can't find any chords
that match my symphony.

So spread your wings
and give me creativity,
cause all I need
is inspiration;
an epiphany.

Play a few chords
on your guitar.
Please,
sing to me.

I’ll always be thankful
for the embrace
your words tuck me in.

Maybe someday,
I’ll be the one behind
the mic
singing
poetry.

There is this thing about spiraling;
isn't it beautiful in a way?
I am like a ballerina;
turning and twisting against the same spot;
turning it into poetry.

I feel stuck.
I am rowing but my boat doesn’t move;
I am trying but it's never enough;
it is two steps back and one to the front;
missing assignments pile above my shoulders
the load is making me bend and fall to the ground
and my face is up against it, looking at everyone else above me,
getting kicked at as they move forwards
without me.
Because I am stuck
and I can't move
or breathe
or barely exist,

How do you expect progress when it is
this hard to live?

I hate the way you isolate yourself when you need help the most,
because I just want to hold your hand and tell you it'll be ok,
be a shoulder to cry on,
the person you rely on.

I wish I were your neighbor and I could visit you every day.
I wish I lived next door. I wish I could be by your side.
But I’m not.

Because I'm a thousand miles away.
So please,
please,
please.

Let me in. talk to me.
Don't get lost in yourself
Let me be the light
Let me guide you through the darkness of your mind.
Let me get my hands ***** with your thoughts—
At least this one time.

I just want you to be okay.

I want the distance to be the only thing pushing us apart.

I go to my school’s
bathroom
and wash my face
with the cold water.
I splash it;
then gargle;
then spit it out.

Nothing but saliva
and tap water
comes out.
I stare at the porcelain, disappointed,
and lean over it again,
opening my mouth
in a hope I’d throw up;
spit my soul out,
drown my thoughts down the sink,
make my problems disappear.

But nothing comes out;
not puke,
not problems,
not thoughts.

My throat
is still
being pierced through— trapped
—by the claws
of the freedomless eagle
that my life has become.

It is silly, isn’t it?
How I tried to steep my wounds,
thinking my problems
would dissolve
along with the blood.

Do you remember
that first poetry book?
Poemas de Otoño
     de
           Rubén
  Darío.

Do you remember when
you borrowed it?

“It was the first book
she ever read
         out
     of
            pleasure”

Your mother said.

It was the last one too,
wasn’t it?

Because you are gone now.
Gone forever.
Gone with no coming back,
gone with no reply,
with no promise of an
“I’ll meet you again”

Nothing.

You are no longer there to console me.
There is nothing to cling into.
No hope.

No hope except for a shallow dream,
the empty promise of the afterworld,
the holy gates.

I’d be religious
just for you.

But my brain was never made for blind belief.

So I’ll pull deidities aside
and grasp into poetry,
in a hope that
if heaven can’t be real
at least I’ll bring my demons
into earth.
Into paper.

Into
ink.

I didn't have the energy to shine.
I didn't have the strength to put on my shining armour,
and I couldn't spend the evening smiling and laughing with you,
if overnight I'd be crying alone.

What are friends for, if not to help you through.
If they become nothing but a load,
are they even friends anymore?

I've been spending my whole life circling around this question.
Going through every excuse, trying to change and twist its truth.

But I no longer have the energy to lie,
I no longer can put on a smile and hope for the best.

Because I can't be others prince in shining armor,
while inside, I am still the frog,
and the princess to be saved.

She has been through hell and back
and would never wish that on someone else,
so she’ll hide all that she wants;
scoot it far into her heart.
She’ll give you all the kind smiles,
she’d never harm a fly
because she knows how to empathise.

I never fit into the fairy tale
of a perfect broken soul,
I hurt others
because I don’t know how to love
I try my best
but it’s never enough.
In fact,
I don’t.
I don’t try my best.
I do the bare minimum to keep myself alive,
I haven’t got a kind heart,
all I got is luck
and a broken soul.

We scream in silence;
shout to the void
in a hope we’ll ever
be seen.

But no eyes lock when you are looking away
so all that stares back
is the dark.

The darkness of our fears.