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…
Qu…e.

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,
darling,
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.

No!

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.
Mmm.
“Kiss her like she’s the tastiest thing you’ve ever dared to try.”

Brilliant.

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?

Todavía no sé como relacionarme con la gente.

Yo no tuve computadora hasta pasados los quince. Podría verlo como un mérito, pero en mi caso fue simplemente cuestión de status social.

Alrededor de los trece años, motivada por mi pasión por la literatura y una pobre habilidad para, no sólo relacionarme con el resto, sino también para expresarme, empecé a escribir. Escribía horrible. Era en extremo sensibilero y poco concreto, creía que si hablaba de las miserias del mundo y todo lo lúgubre y todo lo sacro parecía una persona sensible y honesta. Cualquiera.

Pero más allá de mis tempranas y fallidas experiencias como comunicadora, escribir era inmensamente terapéutico. Me dio la chance de transferir la vasta cantidad de pelotudez e histérica adolescente que me hervía adentro, y también la habilidad de ser menos impulsiva, de pensar dos veces las cosas que hacía y decía. La chance de editarse en la vida real.

Sigue leyendo