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“Are you over him?”

“Maybe. I’d be lying if I say the places we went to won’t remind me of him. My heart still skips a beat at the sound of his name. I still think of him from time to time. But it doesn’t hurt like it used to. ‘Maybe’ doesn’t sound promising enough, does it? I guess I’m just used to it, with him being gone.”

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A Different Word for Fate:


Another night in the bathtub

just to feel warmth upon my skin

desperare for that sensation

I can find no more of from within

Every time I close my eyes

I see your smiling face

when they open all that’s there

is this familiar empty space

I’ve found inside some clarity

yet insanity does not yield

I’ve entered new contentedness

and yet desperation I still feel

I cannot tell if I’ve found myself

or if I’ve lost what little I had

I could smile for all eternity

and I’d never stop feeling sad

I’ve been searching for my Destiny

with each new rise and fall

though the thought that now concerns me

is if I ever had one at all

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staring out at the fractured darkness
awash in the burning starlight

you feel that unfathomable loneliness
the cup is neither empty nor full

emotions are splashed across the floor
graffiti painted on your skin once more

like forks slowly scraping your glass insides
there aren’t anymore places left to hide
.
invisible strings arrange a painful smile
tricking yourself has gotten easier

at least those threads hold you together
not falling apart for a little while
.
but why don’t you just try to let go?
you’ve become familiar with metallic hurt

and learned the anatomy of sorrow
so say good night to the stars for now

as gentle dawn will quickly grow near
and expired smoke will then get clear

you’re strong enough to let them in 
then golden hope will once again appear
.
darling, you are loved and adored; 
you are enough and you will be okay. 

everything, everything will be okay. i promise, 
this night is soon over and you’ll be in the day. 

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Ojos de siempre, mente de nunca

Me enredé hace años y aún sigo atada

A explosiones neurologicas resbalando en el tiempo

A soluciones que ni e podido formular su pregunta

Porque encuentras lo que te toca y lo que te toca será lo ideal

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Asi que, llévame de la mano en tu viaje preferido

Y suéltame, déjame ir

Porque volveré

Pero si no, te encontraré en el próximo

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414 embed

the cinema closed

our teeth are scraping on the sidewalk

there is paranoia on FM radio

the summer’s hottest hits they’re calling it

I’m making myself look bigger

I’m making myself look more closely

the nail salon is pre-charged with gossip

the skies holding back apocalyptic wash

you can ask for irrigation

you can ask for a retrial

but you can’t let yourself mistake forgiveness

for acceptance

listen close

and watch the waves grow

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I’m averagely attached to you

But simultaneously I am smashing my head against a wall thinking about you leaving me behind.

I miss you but don’t care if you don’t answer my texts.

I want to fall asleep next to you but have forgotten what it feels like.

I wish I lived in a new place

But with you

I don’t care when and anywhere will do.

You keep talking about a raise youre getting

Which means a little longer

You plan on staying

It’s almost my birthday

I hate it

But hope to see you

You won’t wanna leave

Until you see me smile.

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Black Lives Matter

Three of the speakers
were teenage activists–two girls and a boy,
standing up with powerful voices.

These kids are heartbreakingly brave.
I can’t honor them enough.

In a just world, teenagers would not have
to stand on the stone steps of city hall
and speak above sirens. 

We should have changed the country
while they were still in elementary school.
No, our grandparents should have fixed
this years ago. The seasoned activists
on the grey stone stage
should have been exempt from this fight too.

I could take this train of thought back 
in time until racism never poisoned
the world and its powers, but this is the world.
Kids should not have to fight for their lives.

I am here to sing the praise of three teenagers
who should not be this grown up yet.
They should not need the courage
they inspire others with.

Their lives matter.
Their lives matter and they should not
have to carry the weight of defending them.
Don’t leave them to carry it alone.
Pick it up.
Pick up your sign and raise your voice. It’s time. 

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Sometimes I wish I knew what you were thinking. How you felt. What you weren’t saying. My mama always said I’m gonna get myself hurt. But it’s better now than before I get too attached and sign up for worse.

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the kid gasps, open mouthed, around your room, taking it all in. he’s never been in here before

after all, when you visit your friend’s house as a kid there are only two rooms that are off-limits.

one is their parents bedroom, it’s never been said that you can’t go in there but no one dares to take refuge there during hide and seek

the other, far more importantly, is their older sibling’s room, those dimly lit places, always barricaded shut to hide away any big boy or girl happenings that may occur, though what these happenings may be you and your friend have no idea, not for lack of speculation

but I digress, now you’ve allowed the kid into your room. or rather, he never really gave a shit about being told off and his curiosity often gets the better of him

so you wince as he plays with your vinyls, definitely scratching one of your favourites, because he’s never seen one before and even you still sometimes become enthralled by the way the drag of the needle across a black disc can produce any sound besides a horrible screech

and you gasp and catch the snow globe you bought in Berlin when you were lonely and miserable and detached as he - the fucking idiot, you’ll happily tell him - bounces it on your bed and of course it rolls off the edge and of course the football obsessed dumbass would be convinced that anything even remotely spherical would just bounce right up off of the floor

(in retrospect, you’re not entirely sure why you bothered to catch it, maybe you like to preserve the unhappy memories of alienation - that was probably just your fault because you weren’t outgoing enough - in such a cheap, shitty reminder. or maybe you just didn’t want to have to clean up glass and stale water and white glitter off of your floor.)

but by now (after fifteen minutes, maximum, I swear to fucking god) the kid’s run out of things to fuck around with, he’s even risked a half-a-second glance into your underwear drawer, right in front of you, the wee shit, so it’s no surprise that he’s decided to scrutinise the walls. he stops, perhaps only just really noticing the posters, proudly tacked up and yes you’re proud of them because you nearly broke your neck putting the top ones up and you actually had to plan which ones went where before you put them up so shut the fuck up okay? yes, you’re proud of them

you see his gaze settle on the poster of Harry Styles, artfully nude and draped across a yellow background. you sigh inwardly and prepare for the snigger of “why’s he naked?” from the kid

instead he laughs, points at the wall in an accusatory fashion and looks right at you, “You Freak!” bursts mirthfully from his mouth. “it’s art”, you protest, and laugh along half heartedly, maybe embarrassed. perhaps he’ll go home and tell his parents about the poster and they’ll think you’re just as bad as their son, with his bikini clad women tacked up on his walls.

you don’t really care though.

after a short while his accusatory shrieks die down and soon his gaze lands on the smaller photo of Lorde, tucked away in the corner, her face hidden by a big, red balloon and your stomach goes tight, tongue already loaded and ready to fire defence into the kid’s face. he once again turns his head to you and points at the wall

“You Freak”, bursts out again. you can’t tell if it’s just you or if it sounds more serious this time, mirthless. you jam on a defensive smile. “she’s wearing a top!”, you exclaim, too defensive, “she’s hardly naked like”. “you can still see her titties!”, he retaliates, argues

“You Freak!, You Freak!, You Freak!, You Freak!”, the words seem loud this time, real.

you wonder if in a few years he’ll tell his friends about the village queer, how he knew she was a Freak as soon as he saw the posters on her wall. 

you look hotly at the poster as he continues to chant incessantly, at the thin, low-cut top she wears. you’ve analysed it before, you think she’s protesting against being reduced to just a Pair of Tits and you appreciate the irony of hanging it on your wall to show your solidarity with this statement.

“it’s art”, you laugh stiffly. then you put on a false-posh voice, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand”. but he just laughs. “I don’t care, you’re a Freak anyway”.

later, long after he’s left your room, you wonder if he understood perfectly well what that poster meant.

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