Illusionary morphine
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.
