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Mar Orellana Oct 19
Lately,
my mind has been writing
white words on white paper.
I’ve been singing lullabies to the void,
standing where the truths you
left unspoken go to die.

And I stay up all night, pondering
if this is the place I’ve always lived in.
If  I have to accept this is the place
I’ve written my name on a red mailbox,
even though dust is the only thing inside,
where I wake up and water the daisies
in a garden invaded by wild forget-me-not's.


Maybe this is my hometown,
maybe I’m just meant to be
the lonely character that spies
at their neighbors through the lens
of worn-out binoculars wondering
how it must feel like
to be seen.
Mar Orellana May 5
I'll starve to my death
till you can play piano on my ribs
so you can like what you feel.

I'll take sips of bleach
till you want to run your tongue through my teeth
so you can like what you taste.

I'll cut holes on my cheeks
till they turn the colour of my lips
so you can like what you see.

I'll slide my hands down my throat
till I tear off my vocal chords
so you can like what you hear.

I'll make a fool of myself
make my mum feel nothing but shame
call myself a different name
so you can like me.
Mar Orellana Apr 10
I always
Talk too much.
Laugh too much.
Feel too much.
Hurt too much.
Mar Orellana Apr 3
Evidence that I’m addicted with betrayal:

-I became friends with the reason
my best friend cried in bathroom stalls for months.

-I told the secrets he whispered
sealed under drunken pinkie promises.

-I write hurtful poems
to the only person who will read them.

But how do I choose who to betray,
my friends
or
myself.
Mar Orellana Mar 4
I know you won’t read this
and I know you won’t care
but I will tell you what it was like.

It was blurry.
it was slow
but time was running fast.
It was dusty feet
and dusty souls.
It was feeling nothing
and then all at once.
It was hating you
to drown the urge of hugging you.
It was writing a poem
and post it
wishing you will relate to it.

But who cares,
you don’t.
May 2017.
I wrote this instead of telling you, even though you were there, dancing next to me. And we were made out of poison, finding new ways to hurt each other.
Mar Orellana Mar 1
What a cruel belief it is
that plucking daisies
would predict whether you
are loved by a certain someone
who may not know your name
(and doesn ́t even want to).

Because when the last petal
from the last daisy says no (again),
you will only be left with an empty field
of dead flowers since you forgot to water
the ones that weren’t white and yellow
and you murdered the ones that were.
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