In my head at night I'm a masterpiece, I compose the symphonies for which I would have been burned, I create the science for which we would have evolved. 

At night I'm a challenger, that is to say, I'm a God, my mind conjures words that my mechanical fingers can't articulate. 

At night the city is a whisper, it's the brush of the wind with the asphalt, the echo of the footsteps of thieves, the horn through empty streets. It's the moment in which poetry exhales, and I'm not outside, nor inside, I'm still, I'm on the balcony and in my bed with closed eyes. Feeling the cold of the buildings cutting the heights of the clouds, the heat burning in the fire of the chimneys, I become the mixed laughter and the noise of the voices that my mind is building. I'm an orchestra of what I don't know, I only feel, and it's that the city, the world, is hanging by a thread. 

It's the climax and the baby is about to cry, the tea takes three minutes to be ready, but my fingers don't rush in picking up the plume, my tongue doesn't bite itself in remembering, my mind recites the great promise of it all. And my eyes, my closed eyes, carry it all to the dreams of the night and bury it in the oblivion of the unknown.

TA.

I read poetry, and it isn’t about anyone anymore (I mean you, but) it’s all so bizarre, like a new tongue and palate (like forgetting you for the last time, like)

that time someone mentioned my name and I learned how to modulate

And now I no longer dream about you, it’s more (white landscape, walks, no one and me and you), are the air (I believe) you are the snow (It seems to me), you are the leaves (I doubt it)

I don’t know, there is no poetry that could encapsulate you and at midnight (sunrise), with tired eyes (defeated) I think I want to see you and remember you. As you were

(yesterday) and today, but (but)

I don’t know where to see you

(I don’t know in which poet I could find you)

I don’t know in which corner to look for you

(Everything is a blur)

And tomorrow you were a certain bet (yesterday you are a constant doubt) and today you are just a second thought.

And I’m not mad (I’m not happy) I’m not bitter (I’m in doubt) if ever (at any moment) I'll have created a poem (where another me) could remember you.

TA.

I’ll know how many freckles he’ll have

Next time I’ll be able to write odysseys of how she pronounces her S

I’ll memorize all the laughs he’ll let me hear

I’ll learn all the colours that she doesn’t like in the world

I’ll study the lines of their hands to make a map of our reunion

I’ll know which eyelashes are older than the newer ones, and I’ll name each wish: "Please don’t leave."

I’ll kiss each petal that bears the memory of how he tied his shoelaces in three different ways

I’ll jump all the odd numbers of the hopscotch to know what music put them to sleep

I’ll scream in every avenue of green light to know what name she gave herself

I’ll stay in the silence of mass in order to see every wound they forgot about their body

I’ll translate every Latin to Romance just to know how he cooks his lunches

What I’m

saying is

that

I’ll sit thousands of hours in the rain, thunder, and hail in order to know how she called me before she knew me.

TA.

I’m sitting on a cliff, which is a stair (it will always be and is a stair) I have the cigarette in my throat, the fire is my fingers and the cancer is my life. 

People pass by (or not) (I don’t know) (A lot doesn’t matter now) and everything is happening in a heartbeat of a heartbeat (of another heartbeat), and I’m wet, dirty, defeated, tired, yawned upon and murdered. 

I’m sitting with my legs shaking, my veins singing and my bones burning, I am “Enough, I’m done because every night thanking God for another day feels like a confession I never wanted to make.”

And that’s why I’m sitting on the stairs that take me to cars that lead me to death and pain and break and end.

And you wanted to know how it is, but not how it looks, so still, at this moment of my life my smile is sewn, and I’m sitting with an absence in my chest. People happen around me, and I’m destroying myself because it hurts to feel my blood run, to hear my heartbeat, and to be the witness of all, and for that, I’m sitting. 

Because it’s an electric chair, that if I move I die, and I’m a statue without money, that doesn’t blink, breathe, or call for attention. Because the lion is the Grim Reaper and the gazelle, it’s me sitting and traumatized by everything that I know that I don’t feel, but that frightens me. 

TA.

I want my hands to be hot iron and that your skin desires my touch, I want you to be dust and my fingerprints to be the evidence that condemns me.

I want you to be in the Bible as sin and to be bathed in holy water because I want you to be everything that was ever forbidden and kills me. Because you have an ice cream smile in the sun and the voice of the gospel of the church. But I want you to be an unspeakable pain, that the penitence doesn’t compare to the blessing of knowing your taste and scent. 

Since I’m willing to put my chest in front if that wins me a little more time because I want to hear you recite the entire dictionary in order to have your ghost in my memory. 

I want you to drive me mad and for all my art to be a reflection of your gaze in oceans that don’t get storm clouds and I want my lips to be bathed in your acid so as to never kiss other than you. 

TA.

Everything lights out, steps walking away and back in the form of a torn soul, and I’m crying without tears. 

Because the way it's built is how there isn’t enough to make crumbles, since all is smoke and curtains made of bombs that don’t look for survivors. Because I was made from a human mind without consciousness other than the echo of the destruction that is lights out, knees to the chest and defeated eyes. 

TA.

Lets raw everything up

It's the balance between everything and nothing

It’s why it's called a club

It’s that only the ones with a key get in

And it’s heartbreaking knowledge that shouldn’t have an explanation

Just inhale and understand that there are things that the times don’t change

And you see My Love I do not regret because I know everything and I know nothing and if you saw Into my eyes there would be a smile in tears because the narration is all the guessing that you need and

Let’s put everything on the table 

They know everything and deny everything because there is happiness and conformity and need in it

Because they have the understanding of the one given up for dead in a blizzard, and they don’t know loneliness in company but in synonym

However My Love

The truth is that you understand everything and I nothing.

TA.

What I like is the second arrested

Head back and the blue blue blue sky

And I only want this instant

Where the clouds are pale and cotton and are peace with promise

And everything is stopped in romance, so it’s pink, so it’s perfect and beauty

And I’m enchanted in a silence without words

The people are of Sunday on a Monday

The cars are a lullaby

And I’m in love with this moment

Everything is stopped and there isn’t another breath, everything is first with last poem

And there is no past when there is present

And it’s idiotic

But I want

this

this

THIS

TA.

Wake up girl, you’re an adult now and childhood dreams are a waste of time, put on the suit and load the rocks in your backpack that it’s time to grow up. Make dust of your wishes and sell your soul for a little green that to live from happiness doesn’t bring profit. 

So girl, kill that bullshit that you have in your mind that made you believe that with sparkles and ideals you’ll get anywhere in life because that’s for fools, and you’re an adult now. You are to whom you answer, so stand up straight that it’s time to march to the sound of the heels and shoes, put on the dead eyes look and listen to the clock that guides you until Friday. 

Because girl we are no longer children, we are no holiday, nor are we stories, now we are after the: “They lived happily ever after” and you have to start to bleed a little if you want to stay around.

TA.

I’m a hummingbird, a vine of lovers, a leaf in the wind, a bird in the rain, I’m the nervous eyes no one sees, but everyone feels. 

I’m the definition of a stalker and a writer, I’m sitting in the centre of the square, watching life dance around me. Seeing the couple that hugs in the kiss of honeymoon, the friends that laugh with the cell in their hands, the dancers that dance the chacarera lost in memory and the people working for money that only keeps them alive, but doesn’t bring joy. 

And I find that I’m the witness of the bible of this world, I’m the ego at the centre of the world, that I’m the cat gazing at its prey and hoping to win the empirical victory. Because I’m a writer, and I’m a waster, I’m the one who sees the running, the walking and braking of all those lost steps. The slipping of leaves in front of tired eyes, the falling of cups between nervous hands, the untying of shoelaces in broken snickers.

I am the seeing, seeing, seeing of how everything ends because I’m who professes the seeing to have of what to talk about. So I am more the silent thief, the killer without prints, the one with ink for eyes and the desire of telling your lives before mine.

TA.

The boomerang that disarms my heart would be the painting that will bear our name, the way that my tears never fall in so much desire would be the ink of the letter that I will seal without name or address. I’ll tell the phrases that I learned in your honour as the son of a bitch that you are, that you have turned me into a Pavlov of your breath. 

Because the way you are silent with dark eyes is like the applause of the tragedy that they will dedicate to us in the years without memory. Since we would be that eternal silence, that sidelong glance, that turning of leaf, that passing of hair and that minute of funeral that has no description.

Because we are and will be that fucking return that leaves everyone with the dagger to the throat, and we are and will be the best-wasted play given to charity to learn how not to love.

TA.

The bad vibe nobody takes it from me, like a pufferfish I carry poison for me and murder for all, because it's a sentence, but this concern without hours and time that doesn’t have a stopwatch is mine. Because it only knows how to follow me like a shadow with a needle, and I would like to have a way to transcript everything that it doesn’t tell. But for that, I should be able to sit and drink tea with my insanity, and for that time I have, however, courage dodges me and well, the bad vibe stays 

stays

stays

waiting behind the scenes for the misfortune to be as delicious as it whispers to me. 

TA.

Oh, sweet Mercy, why don’t you come for me that I have such shame in the open air, that your kiss would be benevolence. Because I’m not of those that have love, but of those that are beggars and pitiful with it, and I am of those that call and give opportunities that turn them into a rock in their shoe. 

And not even I would love me if I were a reflection, because Mercy I beg you to your holy life, that you give me the salvation of being able to play the card of amnesia with every time I excused a lousy action with holes for fabric. 

And it’s that I am, I am, I am all that I prohibited myself to be in my youth, and now I’m pitiful, now euthanasia should give me its tears and sadness give me its job. 

Because in truth, Mercy, I’m on my knees asking for clemency, because my Diosito I am a cheeky one with shameless that should stop throwing myself to the ground, but I was always so reckless for love that I gave up the one that should have been mine. 

TA.

I committed the sin when I pretended for the first time,

I made out the smile from my dead nerves, I made out the phrase from my hollow voice and the body from a severed heart. And I know that everything began there, with the pretend calm of a storm that ended up leaving me as a drifting raft.

Without moral support that brought the strength of the decisions made, and now I’m like this, with less me and more of nothing and all is an ironic laugh that no longer has the pain of an hour ago. 

Because it’s going too fast, and I’m drowning in what I have said so as not to bring chaos, and now I fear the iceberg of broken necks and exposed veins. Because this is how we end up in the slaughterhouse, and I know it’s my own fault for keeping my tongue between my prison of teeth. But I was never taught how to speak when what hurts is oneself. 

TA.

It's of those moments in which our fingers are moving as if it were a spider web that they don’t dare to touch. The situation is delicate because it's the minute in which we create the melody that will be heard on the day of our funeral.

It's on those soft moments in which your eyes are the colour of my first dream and my vocabulary breaks down in not finding a way to fill the minute in which our hearts are howling for it to happen. That the hands of earthquake tremors stop playing scared and start taking possession of the skin that they know is their destiny.

The second is fragile and fearsome, but it is now that we must risk everything and say: “This heartbeat I have heard before, this voice I have written it in another life and this moment is when I call you mine.”

TA.

I stay every day in front of this screen, praying for something to come out.

I say, please give me the vowels that I’ll put in the consonants because I’m empty, I’m a seashell that mumbles, but that has no one that understands it. 

Thus when I close my eyes I don’t sleep I hear the screams, the howls, and pleads of mercy that seek to converse with what feels dead. And that's why I’m on my knees, with dry eyes and broken lips that are pleading that what my fingers write isn’t shit that even the beggar doesn't want. 

Because the only thing I was betting on was this, this was mine, my condemnation, my pride, and my salvation. 

However, now I’m every hour of every minute with my gaze locked on this screen, yet my heart is the Sahara and there is nothing, there is no voice, no feeling, no poetry.

TA.

It came back it came back it came back

My voice is not screaming or howling to the moon

My voice is ink in the fingerprints and tears on the dry skin

My voice is made of sighs and grimaces.

And it’s to say that it has finally come back

At last, I can translate these torments that had me imprisoned in my dementia

And it’s a joy that silences those pains that feed on my definitions

God

All I want to do is write the word it came back while between each vocal you’ll see me dancing with my arms to the sky thanking for the happiness of once again being able to unite sentences that alleviate this torture of staying alive.

TA.

I feel like the lie of life, as if everything that makes me I don't know it, but I can taste it and when they ask me who I am I don't know what fable to give. 

Because everyone tells me I have the Alzheimer’s of dementia with the way I tell my hours and that’s why I always doubt if I really am as I say.

Since these feelings have the echo of a question that I never answer, because how to know if what torments me is really me or the illusion of the torture that I need to be.

And I know it's madness, its philosophy and a waste of time, but I didn't grow up honest, always thinking that all that I remember of myself it's made up in a past of which I don't have any recollection of and in another lifetime I would have asked.

But everyone seems to know me and I don't want to disappoint, so I bite my lips and go make up another story. And this is how I always end up feeling as an Oscar winner, remembering names that are salt in the tongue and blind eyes. Because I’m saying that I feel like a vampire with reflection but without knowledge.

TA.

Missing you is easy (when I’m alone) its I inhale (and there's your scent) I exhale (and the black dots are your eyes)it's that every action I do leaves me in your streets and and and and and I want to see you (until I’m left without sight) and I want to taste you (until you become my palate) I want to have you (until there is no more me) I want to know you (until I can't miss you). Because it's rain, its thunder, its uneven, It's today, It's yesterday and I (swear) that I miss you to the point of unbearable and pitiful because (you made me laugh) you were easy with (complicated) and (toxic) and (there) and I should say no, but not having you makes me want you. And (God) I’m my own karma, but I’m great in wanting what I (don’t) have and denying what I (do) have because missing you is easy, I sleep and (I think of you), I walk and (I get lost in you) I live and (I talk about you), I write and (its all about you) 

 

TA.

Today I wish you:

That when you go to sleep you feel my presence nearby and say my name as if you were invoking Gabriel, and thus when you dream that you do it with all the colours that you saw me in. 

That when you are crossing avenues, that you only know by pubs, that you believe you see me in the reflection of a bookshop that has been dead longer than you, me and everyone. And that your cold autumn fingers reach out to touch what the wind already blew away.

That when you’re among friends and the beer is colder than your chest without your heart, and while everyone talks, but you remain silent, that you think you hear someone call out my name and from there, your eyes, which are the darkness of a supernova, won’t rest until they never find me. 

That I hope that you are in the trembling of the cell in which you write and delete, write and delete, write and delete, the number that you erased from your life. But that’s still tattooed between the fingerprints of all your no for me, and that when you send your apologies that my silence will be deafening.

That I want you to know that in my exhaustion and pain there is more affection than I ever said when your body was so close that it was a sin to not kiss it (Father I have sinned).

That when all the wishes have been spent, the candles have been blown, the stars have gone out, you take out the Brazilian flag lighter and with closed eyes, you wish that on this night you aren’t the only one with insomnia.

TA.

She laughs between every word she says, the smile never leaves her face, and it's beautiful, she has this je ne se pais that leaves you lost in her eyes. Because God, if she knows how to laugh with her whole body, from the stomach to lips, from tears to wrinkles, and never, in your whole life, have you seen something more tragic. 

Because she laughs, and laughs, and laughs, while your fingers turn in pleas of stop because it isn't beautiful, it's horrible, it's sad, and you want her to cry, to crumble and to fall. 

You don’t want the laugh of angels and greatness, you don't want the laugh of stars and fireflies, you don't want her tears to be sweet and her kisses to be of porcelain.

You want it to hurt, for her screams to be of a banshee, for her hands to be claws to Hades, for her eyes to be pleas. You don't want her to play the ludo but to tell you all the truths that she doesn't hide behind the masks that are bathed in trauma. 

You want her to stop everything that she believes that protects you from her and her lies, you want her to stop being as she should be and to be as she is. Because it hurts, it kills you how she looks at you and laughs, and laughs, and laughs, it’s a shivering of grave 24hrs a day and God you know how to beg because she never stops. 

She looks at you, she speaks, and it’s: “Please, God give her the strength to face her demons”, she finds you, she tells you, and it’s: “Jesus, please give her the courage to tremble the lips and let the tears fall”, it’s that she sees you, she laughs, and it's: “Please fall into my arms that I would die holding you” 

But, she only knows how to laugh, laugh, laugh, because she tells you that if she cries, if she accepts it, if she falls, if she crumbles, if she shakes, the house could never return to its foundations.

TA.

It's a siren's song what my skin commits every time I seek punishment, it's a lost caress that makes me pay a visit to the grave every time my eyes look for blood. It’s an unexpected invitation, but a desired one that happens every time my nails find the burning in the veins. And it’s all poetry when you look for excuses to keep the heat in the pain, just to silence the soul.

Because everything sounds more beautiful in art when you show the canvas of your arms with a laugh that is a choking cry. And it is a word that remains in vomit when we say that it is sick the way we are butchers. 'Cause, it feels like a goodbye kiss that never ends, and your body just wants these murders as to not feel guilty of all this coming and going. 

TA.

Forever (until after my death) I’ll carry the guilt of how I left you in oblivion (but, we always were, but) I couldn’t continue with the crumbs you made of my heart. 

(I know that perhaps you loved me, I know that maybe we were nothing) BUT I had to choose me (Believe me, that hurt me more than not being able to hear your laugh any more) there will be no apologies that reach your ears (or enough apologies) BUT I couldn’t with the sadness of having and not having you. 

(And the worst of all is that I waited for you) because I had faith (stupid faith) (wicked faith) (abusive faith) that in three days you would come back to me (but, if you never did before, why would you this time?).

I don’t know, maybe I thought that this time you would realize that your candy words wouldn’t be enough, I thought that perhaps you would do more than what you said, I thought and believed that this time if I was you, and you were me, you would try again.

(Now I know that was wishing that the world turned counterclockwise) so I’m sorry (I’m sorry for surviving your pain, but causing you my pain) I’m sorry for saying: “Me before you” (sorry for still practising your name in every sentence) sorry for wanting to cross you everywhere (sorry for carrying the guilt but not serving the sentence) sorry for putting the dot but not writing the end.

TA.