Shedding tears and laughing in her memories is a movie watched on loop by me.

Story of granny about the deceased shining as a star is the force driving me into asking all stars the reason for her deviation from the path of her promise of never leaving me alone.

Silences are her replies if she really exists in any of the stars.
Silhouttes of dark circles under my eyes is the waiting for her reply.

Her betrayal is a fire and I'm its victim.

Between silences
Things seem okay
Can't find problems anywhere
Always have a smile on my face
Until I remember they're still there

It is easy to forget I'm mad
If I dream about your eyes for too long
Usually I get so distracted
Not even sure who's right or who's wrong

So there is not really much point
Fighting if it is all a waste
Arguements will slip my mind
No matter how bad the distaste

So next time we disagree
Let us not raise our voices to a shout
I can almost guarantee
We are just going to end up working it out

"Manos crispadas me confinan al exilio.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda."

Cuervos negros me prohiben mi alegría.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.
Armas siniestras, seres aciagos.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

Mi muerte se acerca, mi mano se acerca.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.
Mi pálida reflexión me prohibe la vida.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

"Me quieren anochecer, me van a morir.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda."
-"Figuras y silencios" de Alejandra Pizarnik

//

"Contorted hands confine me to exile.
Help me not to ask for help."

Black ravens forbid me my happiness.
Help me not to ask for help.
Sinister weapons, fateful beings.
Help me not to ask for help.

My death gets closer, my hand gets closer.
Help me not to ask for help.
Mi pale reflection forbids me my life.
Help me not to ask for help.

"They want to night me, they are going to die me.
Help me not to ask for help."
-Extracting the stone of madness, by Alejandra Pizarnik

You left ...
And you left behind your silences.
Baby your silences I was reading
Some were grey skies waiting to pour ,
While some were raging storms
And your echoes thundered

Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.

Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.

I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my ****, my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.