Canoe

Fuck it, 

I've made a canoe for two. 

I have trained my cats to hunt and I know how to use the bow and arrow. I have also broken the cell phone with its GPS and red eyes.

I stopped that tick-tock I heard slipping every time I was alone.

I have learned Catalan because your roots are there and I have read both Testaments to be prepared. And I have stopped writing down the sins of the impure and I’m now writing down that of the desperate and broken hearts.

Also, I've started to give up on everything the universe has to throw, so fuck everything.

I have put together a canoe, it has food for two weeks and a blanket. I have learned the ways of the river and read about the stars and their stories.

I am prepared for the fight of the storms and to end up in the sea of ​​sands. Because I have said my goodbyes and stopped all that bleeding to live and eat to punish. Now I do the thing that I sew my lips together and my wrists leak. And I've started to give in to a compromise.

So I said canoe, blankets, meals and cats and, you and me. I said I did everything in mind in you.

TA.

The situation

We started to finish long before we could love each other.

I'd be throwing up and you had an exhausting laugh, and we didn't have a survival instinct to make it.

I liked red lights and small streets to see the stars and you were too busy pretending half the time to see them.

And we were not destined even for a tenth. We had to finish if it hurt to the membranes, if touching for you was cheap and in me, it was chills with curses. We should stop tying us up.

But you said there once upon a time and I was smiling, and you were talking when I was to sit and listen.

That somehow we were balancing ourselves, in that we weren't for kisses and say when we were still chased by green eyes.

But you were taking a step, with the beginning of the music and I was learning from right to left. And we were against the clock, last round with a second strike.

We were beyond a dead end. We were a situation.

TA.

Of the envious

I was always of the competitive ones, the kind that held a grudge with envy on the empty tiles of their house. I was one of those who in a drama attack broke my writings and laughed at burning them. I was one of the maniacs who yelled noNoNO when I wrote a word wrong. And that I spat at the feet of my friends for daring to write a tenth better than me.

I was denied from adolescence to youth in acknowledging what was my greatest drive, which was my thirst for greed to defeat. That I wanted to dance in their writings and laugh at their shame. That I was terrifyingly malicious because I needed to be the victor. It was a reason to exist.

So I welcomed every demon that came for me, with cookies and sofas I gave my soul to depression, with the brain as a souvenir. 

And I buried myself in the shades of green that his eyes had with the stupidity of defining what is perfection according to my society. And I told them to stay, to settle down. Seeking to overthrow anyone who ever deigned to read me a work that would bring tears to my eyes. Leaving me with this inevitable force of overcoming and improving. 

To grow up to be worthy of being called his acquaintance, friend, lover and family. Because I felt ashamed that my gift did not create a new universe that would destroy the rules of diction. 

I became a poisoned tree that could not read and write without feeling like a battle that has been defeated.

TA.

The abuse

Is that at five I knew that my body was deformed. That at seven my teacher taught me of bulimia with examples of fingers and necks. And I was thirteen when the voices were not whispers, they were screams and I had to vomit. I had to drink the soup and burn this body of me that was wrong to exist.

I tried, that was the worst thing in me, that I tried not to eat. I tried my fingers with the toothbrush and I wanted to be sick, of a fever that would lower my weight and what if I died? At least I would be skinny, at least I would feel part of my society and capable of being loved.

It was that then I still believed in God and prayed to be skinny. That I ask of them to make me a minimum size. The jealousy of the models and to bring satisfaction to my bones that weighed down and repulsed me.

I was seventeen and had broken three mirrors for having my reflection. And I couldn't tell the world that the marks on my skin was me wanting to destroy the fat. That there were summer nights that I had run crying. Because I hated my existence, my mother, my body, my life, everything. Because being the way I am was a sin.

It was that at five I had understood that what was wrong with me was not in the words they were telling me or in the advertisements to reduce Fat Fast. In that, at five I had seen this photo, this video, this book, this comment, which described me as a poorly made being.

It was that at twenty I felt horrible and I wanted to die, I wanted to burn my skin and look as I felt. The fat felt on my hips every time I ate, which made wrong for me to eat.

So my friends didn't see me eat, they didn't see me drink water, they didn't see me breathe, the cigarette killed hunger and it was fine. Thinking myself cunning. 

Until they begged me to eat, but I can't, I don't want to, I shouldn't. Not when my body was horrible. I know that my stomach is hungry however it looks ugly and disgusting so no, no, no, and I TELL YOU NO.

Sorry.

By ten I began to hide in bathrooms because I couldn’t live since I felt detestable and loose clothing was good. It was an accomplice in hiding my sins, it was that I left my hair dirty and uncombed.

That I wanted everyone to see the ugliness in me, and we are fine because I smile, and yet my nails were marking my stomach.

I’m bad, corrupt code with crimes, and I don’t leave my house because there are eyes. And they can notice my damage, see that my plate is semi-complete and my throat is refusing. That without money I get cigarettes before eating a biscuit.

That at twenty-four one, would expect that I could love myself, that my body would see myself with a smile and respect. That at twenty-four I knew how to eat with honour and desire. That at twenty-four one I wanted my body to exist without scars.

But the demons grew with me and we agree that we are yet not comfortable, we are still not well. We have not yet reached peace. 

We still do not know to respect and agree to love each other, not yet, nor tomorrow, give us another year, another mind, another life.

Because we have abused this body and it is ugly without recognition.

TA.

My believes

That I was in love with the way I had built you, with ideals and perfections. That, that, would lead me to a solution that would not end in expectations and medications and a simple understanding. I needed him to be in my corner so I could sleep with eyes closed and my mind paused. And that my feelings could be explained without the swords. 

I searched for you to stay when the words got stuck, to tie your hands to my body and decide not to give in, or change and personify. That I desperately project into you what I needed to survive. 

I gave you the tools to be the perfection of my brain and I hoped that you would love me when I gave you the answer.

And I fool myself into believing that I needed someone else to be able to exist and accept. That I thought I was unable to live without a company that attacked the midnight demons and pushed me up the hill. 

I thought I was incapable of being strong and indestructible to be enough reason for my life.

TA.

My definition

My depression, is to be awake until two in the morning because I am somewhat more tired and I am a little closer to being awake. 

I can tell you the number of veins marked on my hands and that the roots of my hair are dirty, and that I eat like a desperate when I am on the edge, I choke on food because of emptiness and anxiety and my sadness is terrifying in that it's contagious. 

They once told me that it left them sad and thinking, that they felt my pressure after three months and counting, that they were there but it was hard when they knew of the poison in me.

My sorrow is that there are times that it is at the tip of my fingers, that the cheeks and the green of his eyes fade. That it can be seen when I blink and that time I stay forty-five minutes in thinking that: Its taste of sand and water, its calories, its cost, its energy and my existence.

And it's lonely, that my friends keep talking to me, with messages at three in the morning and five in the afternoon. They keep me talking and insisting and I want to tell them, but the cell phone is far and my mind is blank. And I can't stand the sound of his voice with the reasons for his inconvenience.

It is that I move away from all social contact and I leave with my arms around my legs and doubting the few decisions made. That the truth is that I don't have the strength to write. To pretend I am defeated and I feel bad, ugly, corrupt and horrible.

My thing is, that sometimes it feels final, it's peaceful. Like sitting on the balcony with the rain and the wasted cigarette. It is in the same way that cats lie on my legs and purr and that I am drinking tea in winter.

It is already like a hug to which it is customary and you are addicted to the singing of veins. It’s that you are tired of the erosion of the waves and the electrocution of the lightning. I was wounded from the last attack and the emotions are in an overdosed.

It isn’t easy for me to talk about it. I am not directly in the sense that I say it. In that, it is that my skin burns me and my feet falls with the air. That my hands have no bones to support me and that my eyes fall out.

That my brain is no longer thinking. It’s off and in a repetition code. And I would like to say it clearly and that I grab your hands so you could understand. But my depression is as jumping the rope, cold war and everything is a betrayal.

Is that my depression is a lie and fight. And don't believe me when I say to be well but don’t believe me when I say to be wrong.

That my depression has a mention in the dictionary that nobody should define because it's corrupt.

It was my birthday, I was among friends and we had run away, fallen and crashed. That we were in chaos, and he was screaming while the other was bleeding. But I was looking at the tall buildings with their difference between breaking and dying. They believed me lost.

When I remembered that he was afraid of heights and that I loved him to stop noticing the buildings. That it took me a month to see him again and end sitting on the edges in fear of his existence. 

And I would like that my depression could be locked in the idea that it is a shadow companion to which you could accommodate and rebel.

My depression is that I have been sleeping for four days and that my stomach is vomiting and I am defeated. That I must have letters in the form of magazines. And that I no longer have a fight or flight when at thirteen it was the first attempt and at that eight started as a tic. 

I don't remember how to be without it, and if I were honest, my depression is like my first horror movie. 

In my house alone at seven with light and the cold of fever. It is like listening to the sounds of lonely midnight and that your loved one dies and you read it in the newspaper.

It is identical to the way you catch in a lie you love and in the fear of when you lose. It is the acceptance of existing.

TA.

The answer

The silence, it’s what left me deaf and almost getting in a car rash in Retiro. It’s the first to leave me after The First. It's what stayed when they told me to throw myself in front of a bus and with the crooked smiles. It is the ellipsis that I send when they ask me for explanations and that if I am well. It’s the way I open my mouth and know that it moves. That I feel it in the muscles of my stomach and I know that I am losing air. However, there is no sound.

It’s that I remember that you told me with anger at the door and bad instructions to explain. To take my time and cut the manipulations. That I wrote down why my veins sang.

I remember that the window had pink clouds and I thought that the wine was getting warmer. I thought that I still have a paper with blood and sometimes I wake up looking for the letters. I thought that the first time I slept with open eyes I was eight and they put me in the bathtub.

I think about the way I sleep now during a shower, and I know I don't say anything when you get angry.

That I try, that you have me with a sticky nose, lips stuck and the tears fall from everywhere. But I tied my hands to you.

I want to say it, explain it to you in a way that is not despising and 

I WANT TO SAY THAT I BURN WITH THE SINNERS, I WANT TO SAY THAT I DIE WITH THE INNOCENTS AND THAT I COMMIT SUICIDE WITH THE BRAVE. 

But seeing your eyes I stay with closed lips and I can’t. I am left with that I point wounds and I hope you can translate.

That that is the last I have. 

Which leads me to the madness with which I gave it my arms, my spine, my skills and I am ninety. I swear my veins are breaking and my bones are falling in my shadows. I cut my ears before the silence, I tell you that I am FALLING THAT I TRIP THAT I DRAG THAT I DESTROY

And you, you shrug your shoulders and I know that sound I  did hear it. That that one left me with a dead heart and that silence was life. That the noise were the demons, and now I am quiet. I am that I have become whole and insane.

And in silence, I tell you is that I am depressive with anxiety and suicidal intentions. That my friends hug me in fear that they won’t see me again. 

That my love writes to me in the shake of unread messages. And I haven’t t kissed because my luck is not of the creating bonds.

That silence is my answer because there are no words to define what I forget.

TA.