late at night

chemicals in my brain react

to whispers of vanguard

dissolved by a little pill

served by my new corner pharmacy

rooted in mannerisms of expectation

seeking performance aside from revelation

feeding the emptiness of melancholia

weighing high functioning cycles

exhausting every tear possible

as raiding disruption

turns into abduction

clinging to images of bare comfort

membranes dissolving desire for the unconscious

claiming ability for

failing repeatedly

to hold conversion

as shifts of redemption

yet replace temptations

with shifts of perception

The voices in my head

you know what bothers me the most? it’s never how much someone pulls away, or how they read your scars with self-diagnosis, how they judge your responses.

it’s the lies. the lie of their care. the lie of their fear. the lie of their contempt.

am I so gullible to think that still, through the lies, I can love you? I must be so crazy to see your pity as high regard. I had forgotten that silence perceived feels anxious but understood can be weaponized.

I must be a fool to answer the questions I know I can’t even answer to myself. you make me brave the same way you make me weak, with a curiosity to feel the ether of my beginnings yet inspect the scars near the ends.

It must be some gift to make the storyline so real, so raw, to watch the different paths dissipate with a tap.

Distance has never seen me grow, it has always seen me drown.

I’d forgotten that the only ear that hears me scream at night is mine, the one that wakes up in tears, remorse, fear.

yet here I am, wondering who will get to hold your hand at night when you can’t sleep, dry your tears when you can’t beat em, and dream to live with you.


sera ya?

sera ya que se me agotaron las estrellas?

que el cielo llego a mirar mi destino y dijo,

cuantas ganas que le faltan a estas pilas de recargarse

cuanta pena que las ganas que no tiene se fugaron a otra galaxia.

Aveces me siento como la arena fuera del mar,

permeable y absorbente, pero no luminante

con granos que forman escondites para los que ni al espejo le creen la farsa

formando huellas tan profundas sintiendo de cada carga inesperada y aguda

paseando solo cuando fluye el viento migrante que no lleva trazos ni de origen ni destino.

Una arena que se molda y endurece, que se ajusta y asimila

se sostiene de pie con formaciones de manos

con visiones de proposito y delirio

Aun asi,

esas manos aprenden a usar los rastros de tal arena para borrar las visiones que hormigueaban en sus manos

le conversan al viento que el mar borra en cuenta regresiva y que a cero llegara la arena a puñetes o a oleadas

Sera que cuando se agotan las estrellas el cielo las repone?

o sera que el cielo se mira en el mar y en cuenta regresiva descarga los rastros del propósito visionario de mis estrellas?

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