La Verdad 

Você acha possível ter um peso no coração e não sentir-lo? 

I am in some ways very happy, feeling optimistic and independent. Feeling like some things I was afraid of not being able to handle I can handle. 

I’m feeling wonderfully like I’m moving more towards myself and less from this split in half version I’ve been living. 

It is invigorating.


He looked at me, and having just met me, labeled me wounded. He said I held myself as if ready for a blow, that I spoke like an injured animal snarling in pain. He said boohoo you’ve been hurt. So what.

I am nothing without … What? Or who?

I am so many people for so many people that I can’t recognize the soul donning these disguises. 

I waved goodbye at the whistling tree, but I didn’t walk away for many months. I pressed dirt over the piece of my heart buried in the ground and spat at the one who gave me the knife to maim it. I said goodbye to him every single day until one day I grew so tired I couldn’t lift my hand to wave, and that’s when I finally limped away. 

I will never forgive you for showing me that I have a soul, and I wish I could take back every word that spilled onto the ground before us, the flowers growing there are weeping ugly things. 

I regret many things, and you are one of them. Pain was not worth pain. You gave me no pleasure in exchange. Now I give nothing as well.

Less Of A Woman

I am too weak to stand feeling what it is that I feel.
I would like to lie down, and for once
Feel nothing at all.

Maybe I am less of a woman, to some, for acknowledging that I am a woman – and as such feel things only women may experience.
Maybe I am less of a women, to many, for refusing to pour myself into a mold, fit only for creating mothers, and virgins, and whores.
For I am none and all of these.

I am less of a woman, but no less of a human, for a self admittance of the ignorance and of the irresponsibility of forsaking a divine task – set by women for woman and carried on by women.

I am not strong enough to carry the weight of a grief so profound in my chest, however, I will carry it with pride as long as I can do so.

I will wave a flag of surrender, I will lay down my arms, I will forsake those I should never have forsaken.

Please numb me, I am not strong enough for the life I have been fated.

Oh to be simple, and dumb, but happy.
Oh to be unaware but also unimportant.

I would like to lie down, and for once, feel nothing.
Nothing at all.

Stones And Glass

If there were stones that shone pretty, specific hues as your mind makes decisions, I would invest time into searching for and acquiring it. If it blinks red as you wander into dangerous mental territory, or pink as it encourages a crush, or yellow when it finds your decisions will make you happy, wouldn’t we all think twice about certain things?
I wish such a stone existed, and that it rested in the palm of my hand.
I am making a very big decision.
I’ve been told by quite a few people – wisdom lies in the council of many – to turn away and give it up. That it spells disaster for my future. But my heart is weak and so is my will, and when I am pushed I do indeed fall.
If only there was a clear little piece of glass, that would open itself to your eyes as you made decisions, and show you the major consequences of them.
If you decide to go to school, it shows your future job, car, and house. Or maybe your many vacations and lovers, a secluded beach much away.
And if you were to move away from home, not too far, only an hour.
And be close to your significant other. What would it show?
Going to school, coming home to him. Getting a new job, celebrating with him.
Forgetting certain aspects of your life,
Forgetting Him. With him.

What will this glass show to me?
How will this stone appear for me?

Patrol From Where I Am

Watch myself, check myself, hate myself, love myself.

I’m the one to hurt myself and to soothe myself, I can play myself, work myself, change myself.

I’m on patrol, don’t know where, from here, here, here.
Patrol from where I am.

Gotta keep an eye out, while my right hand is arranging flowers my left is ready to pull a trigger.

Pull the trigger on myself, this is for me and only for me

Tell myself to shut the fuck up,
I’m sleeping on me.

This Is Anguish

The moment I saw those two lines I felt like my chest had given away, my breath had run from me and I wondered how many minutes it would take until I fell dead on the floor.
I didn’t die.
The next morning when reality hit me, I was filled with fear – fear of judgement, of failure, of my inability to care for this life that had been so carelessly put into my trembling hands.
I had company the second time around, those two lines bringing a smile so big to his face I thought his cheeks would crack into pieces. I wondered what was wrong with me that I wasn’t excited.
When we started to plan our movements, our stories, our life together, I became a bit giddy. I began imagining not just doom and destruction, but love and happiness and family.
Weeks later, I felt utterly filled with new life, a new light shining in me where there had never been anything but darkness.
But a cruel joke was played.
I bled. I bled and I bled and I bled and finally I held my little dead baby, with barely formed fingers and toes, his tiny eyes still mended shut and barely a nub for a nose in my shaking hands.
Such anguish.
I went to the river.
I wanted to drown.
But I sat instead and I gave myself a few hours to scream and cry and scream into the howling wind, my voice straining against the sounds of water falling into more water and me supplying some of it myself, a tad saltier.
I cannot believe my own body.
To be so traitorous, so unable, so utterly pointless.

This was real. This wasn’t when I was 15 and I wasn’t sure and it hurt yes but I got over it.

This was coming home to him sobbing in the kitchen, wondering why God would allow this to happen to us.

This was wanting to sink a knife into my belly, wanting nothing more than to make myself pay for failing my own self. For my child that never even got a chance to take one breath, to think one thought, to get not even one kiss from me.

This is aching and shivering and crying everyday for what could have been, for how big he would be now and how everyone would come to know as well.

This is anguish.
This is death.