I wrote letters
for myself
five years from now
telling him
that it's okay
to cry
once in a while
that tears
are not a sign
of weakness
but an emotion
taking shape
freeing itself
from the binds of body.

I comfort him
with lies
telling him
that if he waits
eventually
everything will
turn out
fine,
that the fire
won't burn as much
if left untouched

I tell him
that broken guitars
can sing too.
Out of tune
maybe
but the melody
is there
howling
on the moon
and the shadows
are its audience.

I convince him
to tuck himself on bed
every night
and sleep
to count the sheep
and drift away
without the help
of tears.

I tell him
that I hope
five years from now
that he reads
these letters,
that i pray
it won't be left
unread
collecting dust
in the corner
of an empty room
deprived of joy
and life.

I cannot wait,
to taste the forbidden fruit.
Hanging,
innocently,
unripe,
from the ceiling of the world.

It's calling me,
to touch her skin.
Feel it all the way up,
then rip it open
and eat the inside
slowly,
memorizing
every detail
while I indulge
in its young flesh
staining it with
my sins
and marking it
as my own.

The bad aftertaste
won't matter
as long as I satisfy
this eternal hunger
and then
I'll wait for another fruit
to bloom once again
ripe or not
I will feast on its body.

Summer

Summer

Summer

Summer

I can't sleep anymore, but I still dream of us.

If you love me, learn to swim in my thoughts.

I once saw a beautiful garden.
Between the red road and a beautiful sea,
curiosity got the better of me
and I examined all the greenery.

The flowers, with their remarkable beauty,
stands out among the rest.
Picked by everyone who passes by,
adored and treated well.
But as they grow old and wither,
used and tattered like pieces of paper,
they are thrown and replaced by another.

The trees, while not the most beautiful,
are sturdy and tall.
From a simple seed they grow,
years of patience and suffering they endured,
just for that view on the top.
But not every seed survives,
for storms can take their roots off the ground,
and take their hopes away anytime.

And then there's the grass,
lying about on the soil,
stepped on by everyone
and barely getting by.
They are not pretty nor sturdy.
They have nothing special.
But still they try.
To grow taller and taller,
so they can at least see the view,
and enjoy the breeze at the top.

And as I left the garden,
I looked back and smiled,
Because even though they're different
They live in perfect harmony.
Because they all just want to see,
the view at the top.