Jamás.

Escribirte.

Como si fueras a leerme, como si te importase lo que piense.

Como quien busca el “desorden”.

Como si fueras a entenderme.

Como siempre.

Rompe de una vez el hielo, me estoy congelando.

Me estoy desviviendo, te hablo de vivir soñando.

De formalizarlo todo, romperlo todo, destrozarlo todo.

Te hablo de soñar viviendo, me estoy congelando.

¿Recuerdas que contabas mis pulsaciones? Tirados en la cama,love. Cariño y condones. El sonido ambiente de la habitación y las canciones; hacían ruido.

Nosotros música.

Busco razones.

Otra vez mirándome con esa cara de: “No sé quién eres, pero te he estado esperando tanto tiempo… Y por fin, vienes”.

Duele y mata el tiempo perdido, pero, por suerte; 

jamás vais a salir de aquí adentro tú y tus ojos verdes.

No quiero el recuerdo del último beso, quiero poder sentirlo de nuevo. Ven a que te vea al menos otra vez, necesito de ti como el agua y sigo con sed.

¿No ves que sin ti no veo? ¿No ves que te pienso y no se a dónde se dirigen mis deseos?

I want you to mean it.

I've never told a lie and that makes me a liar.

I've never made a bet but we gamble with desire.

I've never lit a match with intent to start a fire, 

but recently the flames are getting out of control.

Call me a name.

Kill me with words.

Forget about me.

It's what I deserve.

I was your chance to get out of this town, but I ditched the car and left you to wait outside.

I hope the air will serve to remind you that my heart is as cold as the clouds of your breath, and my words are as timed as the beating in my chest...

Tren expreso sin regreso hacia el olvido

Para encontrarme tuve que perderme. 

Tuve que aprender a desprenderme...

Y ahora voy un poco más libre, un poco más triste, en busca de una frase que se que ya no existe... 

10 things I hate about you

I hate the way you talk to me, and 

the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car, I hate 

it when you stare.

I hate your big dumb combat boots and 

the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick. 

It even makes me rhyme.

I hate the way you're always right. 

I hate it when you lie.

I hate it when you make laugh, 

even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you're not around, and 

the fact that you didn't call.

But mostly I hate the way I don't 

hate you, not even close, not even 

a little bit, not even at all.

You did good.

I know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm, like squeezing into last year's prom dress.

I know girls who are low rise, mac eyeshadow, and binge drinking.

I know girls that wonder if they're disaster and sexy enough to fit in.

I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin, playing russian roulette with death..

It's never easy to accept that our bodies are fallible and flawed, but when do we draw the line? When the knife hits the skin? Isn't it the same thing as purging? because we're so obsessed with death.

Some women just have more guts than others. The funny thing is women like us don't shoot. We swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue, still proceeding to put on make-up, still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable and attractive.

We might as well be buried with our shoes and handbags and scarves.

Girls…

We flirt with death everytime we etch a new tally mark into our skin.

I know how to split my wrists like a battlefield too but the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies.

Our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral, offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say "I only know how to exist when I'm wanted"…

Girls like us are hardly ever wanted, you know..

We're used up and sad and drunk and perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up and tell us that we did good.

You did good.

So try this… take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked and remember the first time you touched someone with the sole purpose of learning all of them.. Touched them because the light was pretty on them and the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did… Touch yourself with a purpose. Your body is the most beautiful royal.

Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore, are not your razor, no.

Put the sharpness back, lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin..

I once touched a tree with charred limbs.. The stump was still breathing but the tops were just ashy remains.

I wonder what it's like to come back from that, sometimes I feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists and the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

Love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet and brother arm wrapping shoulders, and remember, this is important.

You are worth more than who you fuck.

You are worth more than a waistline.

You are worth more than any naked body could proclaim in the shadows.

More than a man's whim or your father's mistake.

You are no less valuable as a size 16, than a size 4.

You are no less valuable as a 32a than a 36c.

Your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood.

Is wisdom.

You are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out.

Reborn.