"I am not aiming high
I am only trying to keep myself alive
just a little longer,
so if you sometimes knock
and I don't answer
and there isn't a woman in here
maybe I have broken my jaw
and am looking for wire
or I am chasing the butterflies in
my wallpaper,
I mean if I don't answer
I don't answer, and the reason is
that I am not yet ready to kill you
or love you, or even accept you,
it means I don't want to talk
I am busy, I am mad, I am glad
or maybe I'm stringing up a rope;
so even if the lights are on
and you hear sound
like breathing or praying or singing
a radio or the roll of dice
or typing –
go away, it is not the day
the night, the hour;
it is not the ignorance of impoliteness,
I wish to hurt nothing, not even a bug
but sometimes I gather evidence of a kind
that takes some sorting,
and your blue eyes, be they blue
and your hair, if you have some
or your mind – they cannot enter
until the rope is cut or knotted
or until I have shaven into
new mirrors, until the world is
stopped or opened
                forever."

"Pienso en que ésta noche me acosté con Satán, más que nada para olvidar que tú no eres de verdad."

Socket within the porcelain.

Black, piercing marbles.
Rag arms, rag legs.

Suddenly they come to life
they vibrate, they shuffle, they get tense and go loose.
Leisure time well spent.

Delicate beast ready to pounce of its chair
thrilled breathing, nails out

Me gusta que para pasiones seas maleable.
Me gusta que hay por lo menos una zona en donde puedo dominarte, hasta cierto punto.
Me gusta tu boca y me gustan tus lunares.

I've been eating less.
and sleeping a lot less too!
Before and after every shower I run my hands over my ribs and hip bones to check if they're popping out more.

It's not that I want to be like you, but given that you're not around I have to turn into my own lover to satisfy my constant need to be somehow perfect, for you, for myself.

I didn't mean for this "private" space for writing to become something like a teenage journal to express they way I feel about romantic matters, but it is the only place I have to put my emotions "out there" and still feel like they are being kept to myself.

I've dated a lot of guys.
like
a lot of guys.

I haven't had very many actual boyfriends, but I've been around.
That came out wrong, but you get the idea.

Having had a couple of boyfriends, and having dated a lot of guys, I've rarely ever had truly romantic moments in my life.
I always settle for what feels the closest to some cliché deeply attached to the way I think romance should be like.
I guess that's what roots the tiny crisis I think I'm having now, settling.

I've been dating people since I was thirteen, that's nearly nine years now and I've had around five truly romantic moments in my life, at most. The kind of moments that make you go numb and dumb, the kind of moments that make you think life is truly going for the better now and that you're now relevant in the world because you're relevant to someone you idealise as much as they do you. One of those five moments I actually went through with by myself. I wasn't with another human being, I was left with a feather, a goodbye feather. Left as a miraculous discovery for the end of my day as I re-entered my "go-home" vessel.

After another one of those romantic moments I spent a week not knowing anything about the person who had somehow tricked me into feeling that special.

It's mostly all been like that for me, and a lot of it has been my own fault.

Every other moment has been like a worn out re-run of some shitty 80's love comedy that makes me feel like we're both just trying too hard, but the way I feel about the other person usually weighs more than my second thoughts on the matter.

That's me right now.

That's me right now without the "trying too hard". Actually that's me right now without the "trying" at all.
To him it's romantic because we hardly try but it somehow "magically" all fits together so nicely.
To me, it's only trying too hard to not try at all, to not ask for more, to give plenty... enough, for him to think everything that he's receiving is effortless, and perfect. For him to think we're made for each other, actually it's more like tricking him into thinking we're made for each other.

To pay credit to the cliché he does own, he tells me he can't forget the day we met five years ago and I should be glad to think my glance actually found a way to burn through his skull. But I always remember that when he did have the chance to act on whatever it is I made him feel back then, he made me feel like I was a shameful dirty secret. He liked me, but I clearly made him uncomfortable in public because he was too busy trying to get something better... in bigger amounts.

And sometimes I feel like that now.
Like it's shameful for him to admit he wants to be with me.
Like telling people he's my boyfriend infront of him is a clear violation of some unspoken agreement.
Like whatever smile that lights his face when we're alone should be kept a secret when we're not together.

I tell myself it's ok, I like the guy, there's no problem in making him happy, it's a new century and thanks to equality he owes me no special treatment because of that.

Sometimes a growing girl gets an appetite.

"Best to keep things in the shallow end, because I never quite learned how to swim."

Rabbits.

I told you I trusted you with my life, with my sanity.
With our hair mangled together, every strand intertwined and our robes nearly undone we got out of the room to the sound of the screaming.
We got downstairs and found the rabbits with a wounded animal.
eating away.
You cringed.
By the time they were done they all huddled back together.
Trembling ears and heavy breathing.
Back to their old normal selves.
back to their innocence.
I took one in my arms and handed it to you for petting.

The promise of eternal love of someone who is by all means a long term suicide case couldn't be more innocent than that.

Te tengo enredado entre costilla y costilla. A veces te me inflamas, no me cabes en el pecho y rompes todo lo que te encuentras para hacerte de espacio para crecer.
Me duele tanto que me dan ganas de llorar.