Illusionary morphine

Giovana Costa
Aug 31, 2018 · 3 min read

The rain

is starting to hide

the years passing through

the window.

I feel everything —

the smells, the sounds.

36,72 hours

without

shouting my eyes.

Another infinite night

hearing mute screams,

waiting for a miracle

or maybe

just another broken glass.

There are no colors

that can bring to life

the hell

present on all these

pages.

I feel my skin opening,

the scratched chest

feeling the strong power

of my spirit fighting

to stay alive.

My breath seems incomplete

when I am not desiring you,

specially when life

kills the language

that the angels

are forbidden to speak.

I used to say your name

every day,

whispering

so I wouldn’t forget.

Dancing at the streets

of nowhere,

watching the flames

live and die.

If this is my story

I can play

with the shadows.

I was never good or merciful,

writing letters about

how desperate you were

to believe on my sculpted lies.

Not because I never loved you -

you know I did-

but because playing with the door

is the best way to put a house

on fire.

I still like to feel

your eyes on me

when I am not looking,

as a wolf that waits

to kill a bird -

sometimes

I forget who’s the wolf.

We watch the seasons

come and go,

my instincts guiding

every mad movement

that comes from

my hands.

I want to leave the house

to watch the meteors,

so I can forget

I am starting to loose

my sanity.

I look at the sea

trying to read

notes written

by men like you,

who are always enchanted by

holding girl’s necks

and following the wind.

The sick search

for illusions

keeps the city alive,

waiting for sailors

and dead monsters

to come back.

I can hear your teeth

chattering

when I come closer,

poison smelling like

something sweet

and promising that

all my atoms

will take care

of all your atoms.

At the end,

how could you imagine that

my mouth tastes like

blood?

There is a weakness

coming from my bones,

a strong feeling of death,

an empty space inside my heart.

We all move like

wounded animals,

trying to find another forest,

trying to stop

the same old pains.

I cry in front of a god

that says the devil holds me tight,

growing with the flowers,

hiding inside my eyes.

Eyes -

following me

back home,

as an obsession

or a simple prayer.

Touched by the witches

and denied by heroes,

the human tragedy

is sleeping on my bed

tonight.

The alchemist

is singing at the street,

claiming that the monsters

finally won

and the time for lovers

has come to an end.

There is an open wound

inside this land

that kills the animals

before their 18th birthday.

But some survive

one more night,

one more year,

one more life.

I need to take my demons

for a glass of wine

and remember

my dreams

don’t come to an end

in this mortal life,

so maybe

I can learn

how to say goodbye.

At the end,

we all need

a personal tragedy

or a national one,

so we can remember

to navigate on

a ocean made of tears

and rebirth.

The truth ate my fears,

my poems,

my pictures.

The only thing

that still lives here

is the naked discovery

of what our bodies can burn.

Love is the interruption

of a millennial dance,

is a piece of star

inside the water,

an addiction

that heals my deepest

fears.

The best part of me

still asks,

with redemption

and not abstinence,

for you to touch my hair

and kiss my knees.

My body doesn’t

taste like

your childhood monsters

or like the women

you think you can break.

My body

tastes like immortal ancestors

and dead flowers.

It tastes like the part of the world

you can’t understand.

And I know

everyone here

smells like your past

or present,

but my skin

stays in your memory

regardless of time.

Poets are never alive

inside someone else’s books,

so they can scape

from eternity.

Using nothing but words

to make someone else

immortal

and having the pleasure

to leave this world

without making much noise.

Maybe

there is a special hell

to wild dreamers

that create wars

because they can’t

protect themselves

from the magic

star crossed

misery.

Blessed be

the unwritten poems.

I close my eyes.

You are here.

    Giovana Costa

    Written by

    "Uma obra de arte é boa quando nasceu por necessidade." (Rilke)