after months of silence,
a heartfelt laugh sounded like a gunshot.

loud, obnoxious, almost psychotic
when i let it out.
loud, obnoxious, almost psychotic
when the silence that came after weighed me down like it always has done

silence
             can be
                          deafening
                                              too

as we rose from our feathery cocoons
we witnessed snow on the other side
                                         of the window,
the further side;
where Eve used to dwell
but none on ours, for our concrete hearts
melt the snow as quick as liquid
                                         chocolate

warm your hands, come closer to
     the fire
let me tell you the story
of the ice that wouldn't stick
to concrete, to absolutely nobody
in the old rundown city

welcome to no-ville

i'm walking past life
like i'm driving through acid rain.
i'm going too fast
"i'll never be sixteen again"
and i'm forgetting all about the scenery
that sleeps on the other side of this timely window-sill.
but what am i to do?
i have to go solo, always without you.
parking for tourism would be the death of me,
staying overnight would get me a good night's sleep,
by which i mean i'd never ever breathe again.

i'm walking past life
like i'm driving through acid rain.

daisies spring out of her skull
and **** away at the rippled
fountains under her eyes.

sheep collect just under his nostrils:
too many of them, obscuring
the field they graze upon.

little timeless mountains erupt
from the fiery magma that is
her face.

liquid gold drippity drips
onto his head,
but it doens't seem to bother him (it's not that hot).

condensed amber stares back at
you when she's listening, pure
wholesomness in a condensed mineral.

a single cornrow, divided, unites
two halves of a whole beautiful
art statement.

the marble walls are pressing in
and I can't find my way out
your question left unanswered
there are no clues inside my cage
and I know
that if I can't fit in this tomb
that if I don't adapt
            (to whatever
             I'm suposed
             to adapt to)
I'll asphixiate

enter this mansion,
the place where love is given out
in little clear bottles
so you can put them on your shelves
back to back with knowledge carriers
bound so tight in leather
the ideas flow out as you take a peek.

these beautiful bottles have
but one thing in common:
the memories you can glimpse in them
happened entirely by a fireplace
in a house, my house,
far away from here,
where the walls are so thick
that you can't hear the tears
but i know that should i choose to
i would open this door
and find comfort in my mother's love.

people have walked past it
thousands and thousands of times
and never noticed anyting odd
but i swear, on my father's kindness,
the front door leads to another world.

step into the witch's lair
all your prejudice wiped away
completely free of exterior negativity,
she might teach you a thing or two,
or maybe, make some tea.

bubble, bubble, toil and trouble;
something wicked this way comes.

when has rage become me
as i have become her
as night becomes hope-light
as the sea became the doomed sailor
(ungodly mist)
so why is this redundant
and why is she stuck there
so why are you willing
to salvage and conquer

the sinking feeling of preparing a suitcase for a funeral
burns out as quickly as her life did.

your kindness will not be forgotten;
i love you, auntie.

i'm running past life
because i can't bear to walk,
to stop, to listen, to see
what you're able to do to me.
it's pouring acid rain
and you're even less present
than
the blood in my veins.

"the witch is always to be blamed
if those who record what had taken place
happen, all of them, to be men.
maybe they own selfish hearts,
destined to wither and break.
true strengh can only be gained
from standing up, from facing them.
head on, fearless.
alas, my daughter,
you must never forget
that women are cunning and selfless,
powerful in their mindset
and able to outrun, to outfly men
who's only wish is to stick their ****
into someone, perhaps something else."

dawn refracts on this blanket of fog astoundingly different as it does on broken mirrors
punch them until they break
make something poetic out of them

old carcasses showed me the way
they envisioned the world.

have you heard the tales?
the stories that speak of
the end of the world.

a flat world, that is;
the edge were monsters congregated
and prepared themselves for the prey.


that world is trapped inside a bauble,
hanging on my overdue christmas tree.

mental breakdown
rundown, snake town
trampled over by a truck.

i am no one
no less, no more
than the place where you remain stuck.

what if i told you
how i wear lipstick
the same colour as my sweater
so i can kiss myself
take my own clothes off
and revel in the beauty of my bare skin
because no one seems to be
up to the task
so i'll do it myself,
thank you very much

i
wonder if
arching back my back
really increases the number
of millimetres of me-  in touch with you
in which case, i understand why the lady in the little black dress became the bow you played her strings on,
****** chill creeping
down your spine
into her dark,
arched
neck-
line

the flowing chiffon billows in the wind
the remains of her torn-up dress have fallen off
revealing the scabbing,
   the oozing,
      the ****** mess that's confusing.
relinquish the souls of the ******, Wise One.
the woman nods and smiles: "dutifully so".
she reveals the martyr's expression of unkempt love.
    in her inner core, once and for all,
        is her furthermost and final foe.

i finished writing;
took a sip of my drink.

it's gotten cold.
like your promises, all those words.
the i love yous that were forced,
all the lies that weren't untold.

i'm no stranger to them, at all;
by now, i expect you've been told
of my double facade,
my words to uphold,
and maintain in italic
but also in bold.
i scream, directly, at my lungs
and your toes
'cause i can't seem to look you in the eyes,
not anymore.

i am stuck here,
stuck in a metal door.
my feelings are numb and have been for quite a long time;
but i can see hers in the unruliness of her curls.
the madness in her eyes shines a light on the darkness in her mind.
she recoils
into herself
a ball of self-pity,
self-hatred
and explosions
of current emotions.

i am stuck here,
stuck in a metal door.
my feelings are numb and have been for quite a long time;
but i can guess his because he boasts about them.
he is staring into the patient's padded cell and claiming that he sleeps in one, too.
his hair is short, so i can't tell if it's messy, if he's lying,
yet i know that someone looking from the outside in has already escaped, he's already flying.


unlike me,
i'm simply trapped in a metal door.

people only realise
how much you're worth
once they've seen the door
SLAM        SLAM       SLAM
and you've turned your back
to prove a point, i'd say.

don't bathe me in liquid gold;
i don't want diamonds, i don't want coal.
my heart's desire is someone to hold
at night when i'm at my most
                                 vulnerable
and when i dream of getting old,
surrounded by nothing but lonely nights,
i just want someone to hold.

i can't understand
how you'd rather be pink lemonade
inside a stranger's head
when you could be literal magma
coursing through my veins and
walking down my throat, baby.

divago y de repente me giro:
el humo escala mis piernas y huye de mí
(ojalá fuera tan fácil).
en la nave soy yo misma,
desnuda y tímida por el miedo ingenuo de la nuez descascarillada.
las distracciones no me sirven,
el alma; no me basta su desnudez.
quiero más,
no hay suficiente agua en esta bañera para calmar mi sed
de volver a mi antiguo antro,
de volver a verla a ella otra vez.

i started dismembering, not-remembering my dreams
when i started writing for runaway, chase-parfait, throw-away teens.
seems as if my whole life is the cycle
of giving and giving and never achieving,
or neverending begging and effortless forgiving.

flashing images of dazzling emotions explode
in my head:

i see you leaving,
i see you heaving,
i see you laughing,
i see you dead.

little girl wants to climb mountAins
     as high as the pitch produced
         when she arches back her back
     and lets herself be taken care of
  all the strains and pains of her human remains gone, never to be thought of again


the kind of high that pours out of her.
commercial golden drugs created for
pleasure,
never to be measured
by those who'd prefer to use her like a tap
clackitty clack
the better me is not for the likes of you to touch, hands are not yours to unclasp

receive her willing kindness
and beware men who would strip it away
forget about modern daily pressure
let your problems wash astray
in the sea that has become
the only home for someone so gray

there's a difference

between the one that begins in the place
where you were left standing, isolated
the tip of the cliff crumbling apart
below your sodden feet
nothing short of curated, cremated
feels like it was yesterday: not far

or the one happening where you are standing
convinced that there's more beyond
the enemy line,
the horizon should shine
every day for you, once and for all
(but it feels like it's raining slime)

maybe the one that should happen
the place where you will be standing
in a measure of time no one knows
like the back of their hand,
because it flows
      irregularly
and it breaks all the tiny ice
under your feet, the ***** looks steep
cushioning your fall into The Big Deep.

how can someone
still look pretty
while she's sinking
she was singing

and they didn't go away, no
in fact it seemed they grew stronger
but the wind in her hair did too
and her confidence grew
until her pose was enough to scare                                                            ­ monsters away

i
am
enthralled
by the way she stares down the world

my euphoria lasted as much as her last cigarette
the one she put in her pocket
at the risk of burning her favourite jacket
all in the name of reaching for something
that was definitely already there

how am i supposed to hang on to
something i can't even touch.
you threw a rope made out of thin air
and i'm begging for you to listen:
i'm suffocating in a wall
and i feel like you're starting to fall,
so please, for the mother of god,
forget all the nuisances i recounted
and focus on this simple task...
get
me
out of here.

scribbling
feels like i'm dig, dig, digging
into my brain
which is stupid 'cause i'm writing
letters that have no name.