I used to be the king of words, riddled by, now perhaps.
I used to be the kind of words that kept adults in awe, the answers incorrect, delivered in a manner that make you believe.
I used to be the words that soothe a hurt you carried deeply and I could sense what were you lacking, secure the crumbled spaces.
Take caution when you call a blessing to forget.
Velvet smooth, white and sour-soft cover, where the machinery lies, silver lining over death bubbling, nesting slowly in the crevices.
Sowing season and I'm up for spoil.
It's my mother's birthday today. She's 60. And I cannot forgive. I've said this before, who won't give life is not deserving of one of their own. And she's gotta live against my anger and I won't take it, I won't take it from her.
Waving the pier goodbye, waking the fear that just brings what's been known. I've grown familiar with the cold and the uncertainty of tomorrow so much, like a cat on hot bricks shall I be when it's founded.
The words stranded me once again for I have taken advantage of them.
Erato, Thalia, Calliope, the women of my life, don't come upon me, don't believe.
“Mírenme, a la vida vuelvo ya,
pajarillo,
tú me despertaste, enséñame a vivir.
En un abismo yo te esperé,
con el abismo yo me enamoré,
pájaro, me despertaste,
pájaro, no sé porqué.”