About death.

Something about death
took the light out of me. 
I stood frozen against the realisation
that it might even happen. 

Don’t get me wrong, 
I’ve danced in her arms
like a lover, 
a soul-mate. 

But to see death in him, 
the one I loved – broke me. 

I stood frozen during months
when we all knew it was coming
and left haunted once it was gone. 
Reaaally gone. 

One rainy afternoon
he called me to his room, 
but stopped breathing 
before he could speak. 

But I kept talking to him 
over and over
like nothing happened
while tears run all over my face
and words became screams
and the screams became mumbling. 

We all knew it was coming, 
so we stuck to the plan, 
and I kept talking to him
while I cleanse, bath, and dressed him up. 

A few years have gone by 
and I keep talking to him.

And I know he can’t listen 
as I knew back then.

While my heart ached, 
empty and full, 
one foot planted earthly, 
one foot elsewhere. 

And since then I feel like a split soul
stuck in realms but I never break. 
I just linger lost around, 
ghostly and fearful. 

People say when a lover dies, 
it becomes your guardian angel. 
But I never feel guarded, 
how could I now?

Que no.

Que no quiero que me llames un taxi,
Puedo caminar,
Son un par de cuadras.

Que no quiero que me acompañes
Es la parada del bondi nomas.

Que no quiero mandarte un mensajito cuando llegue.

Que no.

Que no.

Que no quiero ese trago de tu parte.
Que no me pagues el taxi.

Que no quiero no poder mirar para atrás.
Que no quiero la respiración acelerada.
Que no quiero el sudor en la espalda.
Que no quiero apretar el puño en las llaves adentro del bolsillo.
Que no quiero ir tratando de recordar,
Las clases de defensa personal.

Que no quiero comprar gas pimienta o una manopla.

Que no.

Que NO.

Que no quiero ir a tu casa.
Que te dije que no.

Que te dije que no me toques.
Que te dije que me sueltes.
Que no.

Que te dije que me dejes en paz.
Que por favor me dejes en paz.
Que tengo miedo.
Que pares.
Que por favor…
Que por favor pares.


Que no quiero ser una estadística.
Dije que no.

Another .

I clocked more words typed
than spoken this week,
and I don’t understand
what’s happening to me
but it just doesn’t feel right.

I’m sorry if this
whole thing is an inconvenience,
but I just remembered how
on nights like this
we used to drink ourselves dry,
and we fall down on our knees
making empty promises
until the sun rise again.

And even though
you’ll never be my lover.
Only you could bring the heat,
a company undercover,
filling the space between my sheets.

And such empty driven lust,
such shared loneliness,
is the only viable distraction left
in my life.

But yet, you aren’t distracted by me.
I now understand that.

But if I may, let me just, one.
Give me one last kiss
for such distance will strike
between our lips
now the day is losing light,
give me another thrill,
even though
we will never be good enough,
we will never be more than nothing
just give me another nothing
‘cause nothing is all I have right now.

Black hole sun.

I am guessing there’s a constant.
Some sort of repeated beat
that falls in between words
Arousingly erotic,
marking the rhythm.

There must be
some sort of coherence,
A string pulling out the photographs
On a stalkers wall.

Some sort of trail.
Some sort of clue.
Something I’m not seeing.

But I also believe I
just got to used to it.
(and I refuse to blame my ears for this)
But I’ve lost my ability to listen to it.

I’ve lost my ability to hear
My own driving beat.

You know, I’ve been called a star before. That I shine bright, maker of my own light, they said.

And I might have burst into a bold supernova and became a black hole.

I absorbed my ability to shine.
Or sound. Or beat. Or rhyme.

I clinged to the idea of
listening to the sound of others
until I found my way again,
but it just won’t do.

What’s the point of lurking out of others drive,
just to remain silent, avoidant.
Where’s the line between not interfere and being a coward?

If you improvise a poem in space,
And there’s no atmosphere
to transport the sound…
Is there a poem at all?

If there’s a poet in the void,
and not a soul or air to breathe,
is there a poet at all?

How to break a heart.

Kiss her. Slowly.
Takin’ my own time, there’s
no other place to be. Yet.

Kiss her like i’m not merely
waiting for someone else to come.

Lay my hands beneath her shirt,
or skirt, perhaps.
Maybe get strangled by bra straps.


Wait. Again.

Kiss her like i’ve forgotten
any other lips i’ve touched before.

Yes. Better.

Kiss her curiously,
childishly maybe.

Sort of laughting into her mouth,
maybe inhale the sights.Kiss her ‘till she moans.

Kiss her with my hands on her hair,
pulling her waist towards myself.

Even better.

Kiss her, but like she taste
like… like hot chocolate?

No, that’s just fucking tacky.
“Kiss her like she’s the tastiest thing you’ve ever dared to try.”


Take your fucking time. Don’t rush it.

Kiss her until she forgets how to spell her father’s last name.
Now, repeat it. Kiss her stupid, wildly. Silent.


And dissapear.

Easy, right?

As the clock ticked .

She wasn’t doing anything I could see
except lay there, holding together
the world of dreaming.

As the clock ticked, and the plot thickens,
I watched her chest movements
like the shore watches the sea.

Her neck holds
the map of worlds I‘ve never known,
and never will.

“What if I kiss her wildly? Madly?”
I remember thinking,
so I could wordlessly say so.

As the clock ticked, and the plot thickens,
I watched her chest movements
like the shore watches the sea.

And I choose silence instead of poems,
made with words
I can only aim to say so.

I am a overblown paragraph
with way too many adjectives.

Counted the syllables in her laughter,
and waited for each break
to close the verses.

I might be a writer,
but she is a poem
with words in languages
that I did not yet learned.

It is a story that i’ve always
wanted to tell, and yet,
she vomits on metaphors
beyond my comprehension.

Each movement of the hand,
each hair dropped over the chin,
intoxicates me.

My hands smells like an old book,
a poem poorly resolved,
a bad idea.

Because she’s the kind of woman
you have to drink slowly and she knows it

‘cause she’s been hunting me all night
across my thoughts.

Naked .

Wearing them,
Not wearing them.

Plastic figurines,
That worth more if they’re in boxes.


We sell ourselves like
Dolls on shelves.

Naked is nothing but another envelope.

It’s not what you wear
(Or not)
What defines you.

It’s the thought.
Speak, love, hate.
Then, you’ll be vulnerable.

I’ve heard .

I’ve heard some people,
some lots of people.
I’ve heard them cryin’,
heard them laughtin’
heard them choking
at my words.

I heard them sending me to hell
for all the things i’ve said
i’ve read
i’ve thought
i’ve lived.


What they call hell.
It’s inside me.
It’s inside you too.
Hell is all the things you’re not able to say.

All those thoughts that drawn
on a sea a procrastination
and good behavior.

All those things you are
dying to try.

But you don’t dare.

That’s what hell is.

Hell, is all around you.

Hell is the pagliacci
that cries over his wife body.
The Harlequin
that stole a woman’s heart.
A child who lost his way home.
Hell is a desperate woman,
trying to make a living on someone else sheets.

Hell is what you make for a living.

Hell is inside me,
but no when i think
of pleasure,
or measure.

Not when i speak freely
of sex, politics or mercy.
Not when i curl my hair,
and put on a lipstick.

Hell is the thought
that i get when i
can’t walk alone at nite.
When i’m too scared to move.

Hell is when memories
came back like livin’ things.

Hell is inside me only then.
Hell is always inside us.

And all the demons are human.