And let you write on me

Maybe it's the scotch. Maybe. I don't know and I don't care. I see you, I jump you. You smell like liquor and leather and you, and there's a smile in your face and a kiss in your mouth. I try not to think about it, but my own blood has turned to alcohol and I can't control my own steps anymore.

For a while others bother, for a while. Then we're left, and you open up. We drink, we kiss, we laugh. I put you in a shopping cart and let you roll, you do the same for me, but you don't let go of it. I spread my arms apart, scream and never take my eyes of you, because I don't need to look ahead, I know I can trust you. The cart hits the car, headlights break and we have to hit and run, but neither cares, as we hold hands and sprint down the street. We kiss, we hug, we hide. You speak, I listen. You take me somewhere, I follow. You want to write a new year on me, love, your name and mine. I let you write on me.

And you let me write on you.

-W-

Amber colored, sweet, mellow. The taste of it on my tongue, because the last time I tasted you it was salty with tears and goodbye.

Stolen, not even allowed, but whatever. Maybe it's for the best, maybe. Maybe it's time to search for a different light, except I don't wanna. We've been battling for years to find something we're comfortable with, but we never learned how to properly stay away. Too close to be friends, too free to get tied up. It's what happens when you make fire meet fire, it can only burn.

So we chose to stay this way. Close enough to be warm, but not so close that we'd get our bones charred, in this weird W where we're the meeting point. Fucked up, because it's either lie or cry. The option of being honest too scary maybe, although yes, it's an option, if you'll take it, but will any of us? We didn't learn how to choose wisely. So many things we didn't learn.

And now what? Withering? Letting a barrier grow between us because the world is too damn narrow for us four to walk down our paths?

But I'll let you answer that, I'll keep to my whisky and ice.

Iridiscente

Pelusica en mi cama, la brisa que entra por la ventana huele a otoño. Es una promesa de lo que ha de venir, y puedo sentir en este momento la mano sutil del tiempo deslizarse por un cuerpo en constante cambio, un universo que rebrota cada segundo, que muere cada segundo.

Exploring the blackout of emotions.

Am I psycho?

It's a question I face often enough, when my brain deems it acceptable to ask it, based on the circumstances. Most often than not it's in the aftermath of a loss, but sometimes in between too. More often than not it's after I forget too quickly, after I regain my positive carelessness too fast. Getting over someone after days of total absence, realizing you never loved someone, realizing it was all fake like orange tan. Sprayed on, flaking on the edges.

Where did all promises go? When did I stop caring? When did I stop thinking about what once set my world on fire?

I can, I know I can. Sometimes it's just too damn overwhelming, it burns me inside out and it's just passion, intense, terrifying. Other times it's soft, easy. And then there's the time when I just need to do it, I have forced myself into it times aplenty, but there's always this ability, this easy detachment, flying out of myself and suddenly nothing matters anymore. Happy smile on the face, but really there's nothing behind it. It's just the mask over the void.

It used to be spontaneous, but now it's more a trick I can trigger, like I can trigger anything else in my mind, and the pictures painted on my brain's walls mean nothing anymore. I can fall in and out of love with you on the same evening, week after week. Makes me wonder if I cling to things because I'm scared of realizing I don't need or want them at all. Will I miss you if you're gone?

And why is that scary? Because then all my dreams are moot, and if all my dreams are moot, and all I fight for is myself, and I can be gone too, what's the point at all? So I stay stuck here, sitting on the fence. Do I really have to choose?

The three good things and the mistake

Smoke fills the room. Secondhand smoke that comes up through my open window.

I look at myself from above. Man, I look so pretty with the crimson skin and golden hair, almost like a Lannister cloak. I'm floating, floating, breath so shallow, smelling like vinegar and summer heat.

You see me from the outside, you see the real me. You say truth in the water, floating, floating, damn those crabs that try to get out. What was it that you said? "You love reading. You are creative. You don't allow yourself to be put down." She said "You are helpful. You have a natural ability to pull yourself out from a situation and look at it objectively, even when the situation is all about you. You are so open-minded and flexible."

Then it was the turn for the mistakes, the turn for the advices. I saw what he said, I saw what she said. I don't want to be that person anymore. I am not insecure, I'm just used to acting like that. I'm not a different person when I'm around strangers, I'm just used to acting like that. Othila inverted said don't stick to the old ways just because. They're not the right behaviour anymore, the situation has changed.

I'm ready to love myself, to see me from above. Head up when I come in the room, everybody's watching and I want to smile. I'm ready to be the best me.

Smoke comes in through the window, blue smoke, heady and strong.

Runa blanca

El universo se abre en patrones de luz ante mí, como una rosa tardía. Mi corazón late, paciente, constante, entre mis pulmones, que se llenan de mundo en cada bocanada. El sol entra por la ventana y ya no se en qué dirección están mis pies. Estallido de color, flores, sexo, la inmensidad contenida entre sus caderas. Manos y rostros emergiendo de la nada vacía, llena. Pidiendo un salto de fe.

5 de la mañana

¿Qué haces cuando un hombre llora? En mi experiencia, las mujeres, igual por lo que la sociedad enseña, somos de lágrima más fácil, pero cuando un hombre llora, sabes que su mundo se  ha derrumbado.

Ni a dos metros de mí, y sin embargo tan lejos, pues el respeto me impedía acercarme e interrumpir el momento de dolor en el que yo no tenía cabida. Simplemente mi silencio y sus palabras en voz quebrada. "Me pasé 16 años maravillándome de que una mujer como ella se enamorara de mí, y ahora tengo que maravillarme porque no está."

Yo no sabía que decir. Escuchaba sus lágrimas y las sentía mías, abrumada quizá por la verdad que albergaban. Al final rompí el silencio:

"¿Qué pasó? Nunca me quedó claro," pregunté, a lo que él me respondió que ella se negó a curarse, y él se dejó engañar como un tonto, pensando que en realidad sí que lo hacía. "En verdad qué estúpido he sido, si no fuera porque es una tragedia, deberían escupirnos."

Y se culpa, como todos quizá cuando ya no queda nadie a quien señalar, aunque a veces no hay culpables. Y le atormenta pensar que en vida, ella pensaba que él no la quería, y que cuando discutían, el se iba con otras mujeres y pensaba que si ella se iba no sufriría, pero ahora que ella se ha ido para siempre, la busca en otros rostros y no la encuentra. Me dice que no piense en mañana, que aprenda de un hombre viejo, que ame hoy, sin reservas ni condiciones, y yo sé que está en lo cierto.

Al final no queda nada que decir más que decir que solo recuerda lo bueno, que los malos momentos se evaporan. Abrazada a mi almohada, cierro los ojos y espero, escuchando sus quedos sollozos, a que me atrape el sueño, pensando 'allá donde estés, mujer, que sepas que te quiere Sergio.'