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Trying to to recall every single one of your skin's centimeters in the memory,
soaking up the taste of your birthmarks in the tip of my tongue.
I live in the reminiscence,
the mornings on your bed.
I breathe,  and still can smell the white calla lillies.
I stand up from bed,
and stumble up with the canvas of the night before,
that still drips,
like suicidal veins,
the russet and dark brushstrokes which I tried to expel with,
my -so savage-craving  of your kiss.
Dreamed I was walking trough my mistake's hallway,
telling you lies for my ego's amusement.

I breathe in silence, and I managed to cauterize my wounds,
by thinking of you.


tratando de retener cada uno de los centímetros de tu piel en la memoria,


y dejo impregnados en la ***** de mi lengua el sabor de los lunares de tu espalda.

Vivo en el recuerdo,

de las mañanas en tu cama,

respiro y aún puedo oler tu perfume de alcatraces.

Me levanto,

trastabillo con el canvas de la noche anterior que aún gotea,

como venas suicidas,

los colores oscuros y bermejos de las pinceladas furiosas de ayer,

con las que intenté expeler mi ansia tan salvaje de tus besos.

Soñé caminar por el pasillo largo de mis errores,

contándote mentiras para el recreo de mi ego.


y en silencio,

logro cauterizar mis heridas,

*poem written originally in spanish
Freedom lives in me.
Its within me, not within my madness.

Its within my capacity to imagine.

It’s in the sun-rays bathing my face,
and my naked, long, always beautyful legs,
-which the nurses how deny to cover them with a green
hospital robe-
in my capacity to take wise decisions; and to love.

In the capacity to free myself,
from all fear;
from all anger.

Freedom it’s been encaged;
wings *******,
closed eyes,
and been able to fly;
feel blood flow;
the voice run;
running through my skin,
like a kite, of brilliant colors
trapped, inside my body.

Freedom it’s in close my
eyes and
listen the outline of my
and my kisses, sent to

Its feel my thoughts,
my own momentum.

freedom is fought against the manifest of madness.
the feeling of be standing without anything under my feet.

Freedom is to fight for listen the silence.
The silence in the center of my thoughts.
In the hummingbirds, and the singing of the birds.

In all of that the freedom is hidden.

And noise that the typewriter of the shrink produces in the hall, dictating diagnose.
Generates the violent ravage of the madness, pounding each pounding.

And the freedom, over all, sleeps in the bed 14th,
where my refugee, my limb, and my salvation.
The one multiplied by itself;
infinite, like the aleph, I have tattooed next to my heart
The number 4,
like the four pillars oracle that defined the Greek destine, included mine.
On January the 28th I intern my self for 11 days on a psychiatric ward, for my disorder, this was the poetic result....
La libertad vive dentro de mí
está en mí, no en mi locura.
En mi capacidad de imaginar.
En los rayos del sol bañando mi cara,
en mi capacidad de tomar decisiones sabias; y de amar.
En liberarme a mí misma.
De todo miedo.
De toda ira.

La libertad es estar enjaulada,
con alas amarradas;
cerrar los ojos;
y poder volar
sentir la sangre fluir,
la voz correr,
corriendo por mi piel,
como  un papalote de colores brillantes
atrapado en mi piel.

La libertad está en cerrar los ojos,
escuchar el contorno de mis labios,
de mis besos a nadie.
En sentir mis pensamientos;
detener mis propios impulsos.

La libertad está en luchar contra el manifiesto a la locura.

Contra el sentimiento de estar parada sin piso bajo mis pies.

La libertad está en luchar contra lograr escuchar el silencio.
El silencio en el centro de mis pensamientos.
En el ronroneo de los colibríes y en el canto de los pájaros.

En todo eso está se encuentra la libertad.

Y en el ruido de la máquina de escribir del psiquiatra del pasillo que escribe y dicta mi diagnóstico.
Que existe, y produce un violento destrozo de mi borderline, golpeteo tras golpeteo.

Y la libertad, sobre todo, duerme en  la cama 14,  donde existe mi refugio, mi limbo, y mi salvación.
En 1, multiplicado por sí mismo, que es infinito, como el aleph que tengo tatuado; y en número 4, como el de los 4 pilares de un oráculo griego que adivina futuros, incluido el mío.
El día 28 de Enero, por desición propia, me interné durante 11 días en un psiquiatrico, debido a mi padecimiento, este es el resultado....
Wishing your hands might fuse with my *******,
and that your phallus,
-just the way I like to taste it more-
may set in my mouth its lightest traces,
may reborn,
helped by saliva, which is full of poems,
and then you ***,
and we both become some crude socialists, or communists, or wherever you like the most.
Then you take my red ***** as your communist flag, and recite your manifest before it.
And then my nails painted with desire, dovetail with your left arm,
-tattooed of what your soul unvoiced-
and become draw a turquoise butterfly,
emulating me,
and then, an ****** beyond re-surge,
that will go from sadism to communism,
and from metamorphosis to ******,
and if while I write you this,
my *** is getting wet,
little by little,
getting full of my sacred elixir
–according to your mouth-
perambulate my ******,
-self-possessed and palpitating-
and if my mind doesn’t do anything else but imagining  you,
raining white over my shoulders,
and my back,
and my hair,
and nothing matters then,
because it’s voluntary retention, and your ******* friend Marx is next to you,
and not me,
that I’m just listening arias,
and smoke,
slowly smoke,
towards your savage, flaccid, tasty ***, always present in my mind,
and my lonely ***….
This is the struggle, the writings in my mind every night.

The "cannot ******* sleep".

This is the "get to know u better my dear Borderline".

This is the genius, the craziness.

This is my self-therapy. The "I don’t wanna take my meds and I need to if I wanna be normal"

This is me typing, and talking in english only so I don’t  have to listen to my self-thougts in spanish telling me ****.”
"Isto me está a falar e escrever em Português, só para não ter que ouvir a minha mente conversando comigo em Inglês e Espanhol dizendo coisas desagradáveis"

This is the Linguist, the Polyglot. This is the Mexican, the German, the citizen of Oceania.

The suicidal. The teaser. The lover. The wife. The translator. The ******. The poet. The soon-to-be-a lawyer.

This is the world looked through the eyes of a Borderline patient.

Random Thoughts. Just to keep my mind occupied, avoiding suicide,  again, not because I don’t want to live in this beautiful earth again, but just to ******* shout out the voice inside my mind.
“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”*
Jorge Luis Borges

I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.

You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.

Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.

The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.

Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing  in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.

I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.

I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.

White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.

And the same color of your so polish, european skin.

The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.

I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.

I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.

I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.

Our skin,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...
It's just a memory,
my bulgy belly,
my fleshy, succulent legs
and all that you have written on my body,
while on the shower.

All of it its ecstasy.
Its last night being caressed by your torn hands.

You are only a mean to justify many of my purposes.

A remembering,  a feeling,
a moaning, a shout, a writing.

I can forget you only after 3 nights without sleep,
and when the letters begin to fade.
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