There is something about
you and what exudes off of your soul—
at sundown, when we embrace
and we become shapeless.
It is not you and I, and I don’t think
it ever was; you and I means
separation, you and I are not meant
to be fused the way we do.
And we’re still one even my eyes
can’t seem to reach yours,
when a thousand moons await,
we’re still one, we’re still—
You will notice he sleeps like a gargoyle,
stone-faced with yesterday’s ruminations,
a whole six feet of immobility laid out
on the edge of the bed—most likely—
and with almost imperceptible breathing,
and you will admire him as one admires
the feathery strokes in a Monet.
You will fall in love with how he plays
guitar with the same fingers he uses to caress
your inner thighs, and his name will swirl
around in every conversation and make you
wonder, why if you’re drowning in his
endless sea you are succumbing to thirst.
You should also know he will hang up
before you even say goodbye, and will
never kiss you with tenderness; recycling
is his favorite pastime—I have seen songs
and poems and phrases with the dedicatory
scratched out, your name on top of it.
Notice how he will drop everything to run
to you but also to run away, and how he
is cautious when looking at you in the eye;
how he will carve you with exceptional
marvel in every verse and will never bother
to ask you how you are in the morning.
Oh and how he will adore you, once, and will
envision you bathing in perfection—the same
he will strip away without diluting the glue,
as he is the maker of all great things, and he
made you what you are, and will be, and with
a firm upper hand he’ll take the mold and will
watercolor his hopes on another imagined goddess,
dedicatory over dedicatory, rotating halos until
finding one that fits; and I could tell you step by step
how to see it coming, how to appease the imminence
of it all—but just like you sought him so fervently
as soon as I was gone, with the same zealousness
and a firm upper hand I will scratch off your name.
There are certain things I am sure about, and I write about them because with that there will be a turn-around for when I am not confident in what is real and what isn’t. I come back to that, reminisce, and live again.
What is real, what is complete and utter idiocies.
- Hélène Cixous, “Coming to Writing and other Essays” (via awritersruminations)
- Elizabeth Hardwick, Sleepless Nights (via awritersruminations)
I once heard
the eyes are
the windows to the soul;
yours are the smallest
windows I have seen—
Mother I feel your pain,
even when you try
to sweep it away,
or cook it down,
or iron it straight—
I lament my silence
through it all,
and I know you
cannot read this through,
but with my heart,
I feel for you, mamá,
and the pain you
my silence that just
travelled past, only
to be set free with
And in that precise moment I knew, that you excised no power over me anymore. You were no longer the song of every morning, the whispered name in every twilight. Just as you ceased to be mine, I can finally say I’m no longer tied down at your feet.
Heartbreak is not beautiful. Just imagine a ripe, red muscle breaking in two, cities of veins destroyed, its inhabitants scrambling through the arteries you tried to clog, and in a scrumptious venom they bathe until you squeeze them dry.
I gave you my heart and you stomped on it.
- bell hooks, “Narratives of Struggle” (via redheadbouquet)
Despair writes itself as
the end of all things, last night’s echoes
tattooed in between bruised coral reefs,
ultramarine lakes formed in the surface
of the flesh—twinkling darkness wrapped
around tired joints, spreading like
open parachutes scarred in a healing face
Within life there is also small deaths scattered,
gangrening, clinging with bony fingers
to decayed organs. The liver and the lungs
sigh violently, and let out a cough,
a jaundiced laugh.
Despair writes itself as the end of innocence,
birthing life which drives death to its peak,
scurrying through words in poetry and songs,
the letters you wrote but were never read—
the stars you drew in somebody else’s sky.
Catapulting pupils, eyelids included,
to the tip of the universe and back to the pit of
the earth, every piece of flesh and every limb
abandons what once was everything and leaving
a heavy obscurity behind—there isn’t anything
as beautiful as the words of a broken poet,
and there isn’t anything as sad.
The body handles despair as the earth handles
a flood—every cell becomes inundated and
there is not much else that can be done
except lie there and welcome the muddy
catastrophes all at once; it is a non-linear
process whose name I cannot recall, and
that from the roof of my mouth I can still taste.