“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,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.

I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
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.
Dangerous.

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,
together,
united,
white,
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...

Wishing your hands might fuse with my *******,
and that your phallus,
flaccid,
-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 ***….

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,
volar,
trémulamente
súbitamente
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.

And then,
the fury boils in my blood,
because I can hear cellos and violins on the silence;
when I think of you.

I turn my self into an extint quetzal,
and the rainforest cries,
because I don't have you,
since nothing of this is real,


and I'm still thinking of you,

then I look trough the window,
to the sky,
and I see clouds,

then I imagine that we are making love,
and we fall asleep,
and we dream of I don't know what random things;

suddenly I come back to reality,
when I see two hummingbirds trough the same window,

and everything turns out to be stridentist,

like a rattle of my heart when your tongue relish my right earlobe,

and I think of you,

and my hands are the color of your voice,
so deep...

And nothing matters now,

because, fiercely, you endure, ungraspable
like an aria in the opus of my mind,



and now, you have become real...

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.

Amok-Insanity in a murderous frenzy*

My pith transcends to an encounter with your skin, amok.
Transcends to each single word been said, to any plaint been moan by a ******.
My skin it’s only a vignette of the universe, a tattooed moon in God’s scapula.
Endures to the bites of the madness, transcends to the existence itself.
My pith has wings, and it’s like the smoke of the cigarrete I’m smoking with you.
Free.

The dilemma.
The Internment.
The freedom.
Freedom? Which?
Because the more you try to keep your physical freedom,
the more you are close to loose the freedom in your mind,
little by little.
I’m drowning without water.
Into my own voice.

"Sonorous Voice"

Is what it's called by my shrink, which, according to her, its completely normal in the human being.

Is it normal that your own mind tries to sabotage you?

Its called Borderline, baby.

That is why you are able to write such beautiful poems;

to love so profoundly,

or defend your posture and your ideals before a judge.

But when you are alone,
by yourself,
there is no one to argue with, but your own silent voice.

And that’s when the verbiage comes.

And the dilemma,

should I intern my self in the mad house, so I can get my right meds?

Or should I just keep writing until the madness goes away?

In the mean time,
I will keep making love to life,
like if there was no tomorrow…

The light bird has open,
wide,
its wings,
taking advantage of the wind,
that,
awkwardly,
has risen in its density;
if the bird does not fly right now,
at this precise moment,
it will die, vanish,

among all the screams,
that a very dark forest is conducting…

I am that bird,
pushing hard to open up my wings,
and fly away, harder,
and get to you.

Because you are the warm breeze that my wings need;
to become tangible,
free.

I must fly to you,
sanity,
so I don’t lose myself into the ashes where I come from.

Fly through the sea,
that threatens my trip with its deep vastness.

I must fly into your eyes,
for they are my darkest secret,
my desert;
the desert where I want to lay,
lay on its soft dunes, like a wounded dove,
and, calmly, peaceful, fall in its quick sands.

The desert its redemption.

The sea dangerous.

The sea is deep, and full of creatures,
such as the one that has its own voice,
that lives inside my mind.

The desert it’s plane.
Lonely,
but beautiful, silent,
with only a few redeemed beings living on it;
having survived one of the gruesome deaths:
losing themselves in their own madness.

You are my desert.

I want to lay naked on the oasis of your body,
exhausted,
but thirsty still,
thirsty of your skin.
I will quench my desire with your saliva,
and  be fed by each one of your fingers.

I need to push my wings harder,
so I can take a final flight,
and I may reborn.
And be finally free,
flight without my wings.

The letters have faded;
only leaving behind your tongue on my mouth.

And when I close my eyes,
I see carnal stars in the night,
yelling at my hands.

I can see them tickling the savage vice,
that your phallus has become,
to cause the heartbeat of the universe,
right directly among my legs.

Words,
being shouted silently.

Sounds,
colors,
becoming oil,
sliding slowly over the back of my neck.

A quill, on fire,
pouring out letters,
-ashes-
melting poetry onto my lower back.

My body, has now become ethereal;
there is no pain within my mind.

And I can finally breath again.

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.

Time,
realm that holds everything,
eon’s mobile picture.

In the Time, there are no shapes of human souls.
Only the one from the gear between states of life.

The Universe;
the Been;
and the Time:
Delitescent, ethereal, infinite.

The Time its sited on a bench of the Existence’s Park,
waiting  for the life or death passes by,
while reading the Book of Life.

The Time is recumbent, listening to the Destiny,
while this, calmly sings to him.

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;
fly;
tremulously;
vividly;
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
lips,
and my kisses, sent to
nobody.

Its feel my thoughts,
stop
my own momentum.

The
freedom is fought against the manifest of madness.
Against
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.