Red book

It was the last thing he had left as an option,  he had to go back to basics. For a generation like hers, stepping back cost a few panic attacks and bargaining with the voice. So it took him two years to finish a book on his first attempt, and that was four years ago, in this situation of no options he would be on attempt number two. 

She had grabbed the book at nine in the morning, from there she began to carry it with her wherever she went, from the chair with clothes went the kitchen table, from the dining room table it was in his bed, or in the stairs. It was easy to find her because she would have the red book at his side. He had chosen this book because it was one of those that everyone is obliged to read, in the sense that we have to read "Hopscotch" or "Don Quixote de la Mancha".

It was that he knew that the question of whether she had read it was getting closer with the passing of his years, and in the way that his life was going it was an excellent opportunity to try. She had received great comments on this book, both good and bad, and he was eager to give her own opinion. 

However the days were passing, he had changed his pyjamas once, bathed three and ate zero. She knew the jokes of Friends but still did not have much idea of ​​where the plot of the book was going, he was having trouble getting to the end of a sentence, turning the page or imagining a universe with characters in which to live. He wasn't succeeding in the gift of appreciating a book and he was falling asleep with it as his pillow.

Reading was one of his favourite activities, which started and died when he was between eleven and sixteen years old. From there it was turning one page less each day, which led to a non-existent reading, and thus it became traditional and comfortable. She had this excuse where she was good if she touched a sheet of paper once a year. In her defence, she had started off on the wrong foot with reading, being forced to read and that her books were chosen based in the reason that it was what everyone liked so he had to like it. It took her a long time to accept the value in the words and noticed that it was the books that kept secrets for him. She once got to read one of 900 pages, his greatest pride and retirement.

He had expectations, hopes and an eagerness to understand, he had set out, in the box of sand of what was happening, to end the drought and return to its roots. It had been said that this book could awaken the hunger that ran through his mind in demand for reading. However, each page that passed seemed to add numbers to the length of the plot, it was costing her the heat of the cold to be able to advance the action of the events and she was getting bored, depressed, drowning in memories of reading adventures and romance. He was leaving it with the anguish of having lost her first addiction and not knowing who to be. It seemed his only option was turning into a sentence and there was no freedom. He was forcing himself to read, sitting on the cold ground and straight chairs to understand the letters that seemed to stick to the dry leaves. 

She had begun to leave the book in opposite parts of the house, on the balcony, in his father's chair, in her brother's books and wherever she was not. He had decided to run out of options than to continue with the problem of the red book, he would go by sinking in the white bathtub and sleeping in the bed. She would choose to lose the fifteen messages and have his nails bitten than to try the book that brought nerves to his heart and tremors in his fingers. It was the only option that the pain of this endless book offered him, the last freedom she had left, preferring to return to his previous existence than to remember the successes of the past.

TA.

House of cards

She said that she was looking for a job, she claimed to have these plans that would lead to five hundred results and that everything was  possible. She said she was doing and not waiting, she was good at lying.

She ended up sitting on the last three steps of a twenty-seven staircase because of everything she had manipulated. She was breathing as if she had received a punch to the lungs, with her elbows nailed to her thighs and trying to solve what the first lie was, looking for the thread, but those were a knot.

She had been looking for time, running away from what it meant to grow and face reality. She wasn't prepared for what it meant to have ultimatum for situations, thus she had created a solid empire of deception and was now reaping it in the solitude of a drowned house in silence. Her work had devoured the life of the place and she was with the cold in an echo of her breathing, her sentence was the eternal in the black doors, the wooden floors, the hollow walls and the old doors that betrayed every thief. She had no other place to live other than the house where he could walk through with closed eyes, the same that was the centre of every nightmare she had ever had.

She had tried to explain how it had started, that it had been unintentionally, an escape. That from there it was a slippery rope, so it became easy to understand how she fell, and she just wanted calmness that came with the happiness of the rest. She didn't know for what to ask for forgiveness for.

She had a bottle of water in each room, she had grown tired of the trip from the kitchen to the entrance patio to the second floor bathroom. The stove on the first floor was where she made her nest of pillows and blankets, and she had started planting vegetables and fruit in the yard. She was also learning to adapt her diet and balance the new style. Leaving several changes of clothes for when she did gymnastics and she left the cell phone in the garage with the same ten songs on repeat. She was getting used to the punishment, to the silence that left her thinking and recognizing the words she had misrepresented. She had started reaking forty glasses for each time she saw herself smile with what she had said and was without screams to release. Her hands trembled every time they brushed against the front door handle, it was electricity that burned her fingers when she felt the cold metal and her bones felt like opposite magnets. Never being able to hold more than five seconds before remembering the way in which she had created a universe that it was easy to visualize.

She was a slippery bastard and she was pulling on each rope, hoping to find the correct answer. She was desperately telling them to listen to her, but they were quick to turn their backs. In calling her pathetic and leaving behind what she had to say in need to retain them.

She had learned to knit, cook, and clean. She learned how to go back to basics and settled down, the silence became her lover, who kept the secrets of her laughter at two in the morning and the talks in the kitchen. It became the witness of what was left of her on that desolate ground.

TA.

Hunger in the body

The hunger comes to me between the hours of twelve and thirteen, I feel it travelling through my muscles that trembles because of the lack of strength to keep this body standing that is hollow and in an echo of bones that vibrate. The hunger, I have it from when I saw you smile and I had this guilt of swallowing what I had in my mouth. And is that I wanted, needed you, for which I prefered the taste of tea without sugar than losing you. 

When you talk to me about eating out I explain to you that I have this stomach ache that haunts me since I was six years old, where I measured my body with the one of my neighbour, who had a slimmer hip and without baby fat. So I am good playing with the straw and leaving you my piece because I wouldn't be comfortable with you watching me eat while I feel the guilt for the fat on my hips. 

And I'm dying of the hunger that I have, my stomach is growling and my cat is bringing me a plate of food because of my pain. But I'm unable to accepting love when there is the image with the words that a beautiful body is the one isn't seen and gets blown away with the wind. Thus I prefer to play with the salad and say I ate earlier than forcing food down my throat that feels like venom to this body that is decaying in the torture that is to eat.

The hunger is hurting me, leaving me thirsty as water has started wounding me and I would like to eat, make jokes about preferring food than you but the clothes look good on me when the ribs are marked and there are sacrifices to be made.

TA.

Wounded animal

One would write about insanity as one talks about headaches, the migraine that is running around the square, a pill in the throat and a healthy meal, it is like being with the flu in the summer and you are the child who has lice in first grade. It's that you have no friends beyond yourself and it sounds like a tragedy to a martyr. But my madness likes shade, the idea of ​​0 excites him and it is the same as two cats is a party and three humans is a funeral. My mind one would enclose it in a germ that feeds on living beings and contaminates everything that it visualizes. Its the one who eats the latest original ideas and it's just like a two-word confession.

It is having a panic attack in a mirror maze and having an echo between the pursuits of your footsteps. 

I know you ask me at night because you fear the answer and that's why you close your eyes while trembling when my fingers start running through your veins. They are dancing and bewitching the words they tell you, about how my mind is the cry of the great depression and has this thirst that nothing pleases it, and is evil to its membrane.

You wanted to know and that's is why you are trying to cover your ears and hoping to deny the way that I describe the nightmares that I build. Where the eyes run down the face and the hands are too slow, where I pray and everyone listens, in which I love you but you die.

The warnings were lost between explaining that multiplications are easier than divisions and there is no point in stopping to bring you peace of mind, it is too late, the bomb is in its final ten seconds. So as I tell you about my ten little Indians, I start with my arms and continue between my heart and the last vowels of my name.

Is that you're grabbing my wrists and yelling at me to stop, but you already have me crying and laughing as I tell you that at half-past three my mind is the end of the world with champagne and Twitter. 

Its that you were trying to understand why I bite my lips and have a crooked smile while watching buildings. You needed to know who I spoke to on Sunday afternoons and what a cemetery is for me. It was that you needed to notice that my disease is the black plague for which people burned cities. It's like a woman on a ship and dead blood for the living.

It is that you must reap what you sow and here you have this brain that likes to plan suicide three years in advance and has this mania of one, two, one, two, while walking because otherwise, it dies.

It is that the sun rises and you are in the corner of the room because nobody is made to know what I’m made of. You were not prepared to know what the broken tic in me means and that you would know what is the equal of my name. It's that you believed in love, that you thought it was child's play and you wanted to feed your curiosity. 

I told you that my mind is from the movies of the seventies with the taste of a dentist. And you can't understand it if you don't know dead tongues and are prepared for sacrifices like going and killing a wounded animal

TA.

The moon and I

Let's be rebellious, you and me, let's get away from those lovers that ask time and space but keep us on a leash. 

Let's be the ocean and the storm, let's bring chaos and revolution to our lands to bathe in the laughter of our freedom. 

Let's relate our terrible promises with mustangs and endangered species. And let's leave those who created art from our existence and forget the ones that tied our names to theirs.

Let's build roads from the autumn leaves and burn the bridges that lead to haunted houses, let's create rules and universes in which to live. 

Let's be an independent existence of the shadow of our loves, let them look for us while we go in the search of an adventure without the condemnation of them.

TA.

God I wonder

Oh God, I wonder if you hear my cries,

I wonder if my pleas reach you among all the dying.

Oh God, I want to know if I should try to fight.

because I see it, I feel it, I hear it, it's a slaughterhouse,  it is a madhouse and an uneducated high school  This is the end of all future and the birth of the death of humans. Is here that people burn their brains and let their dreams die. 

Thus God, My God, I wonder if it is that among all those who suffer before me you hear my doubt for this nation that does nothing but leave marks on my back.

I had the strength, the energy, to create a revolution and the glow of the teeth for one more fight. One more try before my heart gave into  the pain and died because of lack of land to protect. But their voices are louder and you can't argue with the ones that create suicide bridges from their neurones

So God, if you hear in the distance these cries that come out of what remains of my soul. If a broken part of my sentence were to sigh you in your ears I ask you: "What should I do?" Because I am lost, I'm defeated in a country that doesn't look for solutions but for loopholes

TA.

I was betting on us

I thought us safe,

I could see us in the future

I could promise us our life. 

There would be boys with their crooked smiles,

there will be petals of roses with thorns

and the songs wrongly sang,

but you and I were the myth of our time.

Everything has its end, it starts there, the bet is there,

although you and I were a bet to the 88 and counting. It was that we said we were going to make it far yet we had trouble crossing the street.

In you there were tongues that I haven't translated and stories that were ours, there wasn't a part in my life that you hadn't painted.

We had the study in our arms, the kisses on the cheek and the betrayal on the back, we had the drama of the youth. 

Still, we were capable of sharing a paper and survive, we were the midnight message and the reasons why one endured one more year. There weren't any causes to call us terminal. 

The distance exist in all forms and everyone has it, ours was typical, it was winter while you waited for spring, there wasn't anyone who saw it coming. 

I bet us every broken heart,

I bought us every ice cream smile

we learned every song that talked about us.

They appeared like shadows from the bed, the monster in the closet and the threats of a Saturday morning. 

We never had a chance, we mus it up too many times, with time, silence and distance became an affirmation and now we are forgotten myth. 

TA.

Don't forget about me

I wasn't right with you

I wouldn't say you deserved better, 

even though you deserved more.

I didn't betray you, of that never, I am a faithful dog of the abused, I am of those that stay trembling under the rain and defend without fangs. 

However, I am a mess, I am after the bomb, the melted ice cream and every bad remark you have at hand. I am the danger sign and it was I who hold you like an octopus so as to not be left alone, I was toxic in the blame of us. 

I didn't go in the search of drama and complications, It wasn't I didn't try to be what you hoped, I didn't want to disappoint, but it is what I am. 

I had to lose you to grow and be worthy of a friendship that didn't want anything to do with me. And I understand. 

I wasn't the best for you,

I wouldn't say that you are innocent, pure, perfect and free of guilt,

but there is guilt brought by me. 

At the end of the day, I don't know what happened, there are too many perhaps, hearsays and assumptions to define the end. I could have gotten an explanation but we are from volcanoes, foxes and wolves without packs, we were going to survive this 

I am not perfect, I am not who you deserved, not who you hoped and I have too many problems, yet I am of those who don't forget about you.

TA.

Break up

I still thinking about you, at different times of the day my mind wanders in the way you smiled and how it was easy to talk. We didn't need translations and signs to understand what we were up to, so it's difficult for me not to miss you when I see that painting, song and book you mentioned three years and a day ago.

I remember when we sat and our legs swayed, the comfortables silences and that you were the person that could handle the entire weight of my body, it was amazing to breathe without pain. And it's impossible for me to not to yearn because you were the star to my ship, the one I never caught in words as I liked you alive, real and next to me. 

So I let you run through squares, streets and cities waiting for you to come back to me. And you did, every midnight that my heart was crying because of another betrayal and I whisper your name, you were there.

But now I had been left with sighs that catch your name between memories of a broken tie.

TA.