Scratch that.

No, to die by your side would NOT be a heavenly way to die.

Not just yet.

I'm not certain yet of what lies beyond our graves or ashes. Wether we'll re-unite in heaven, hell or meet in some other life. If we'll reincarnate as humans, aliens or animals; wether we'll recognize each other in another form or not. Wether we'll rot or burn together and be left as nothing but lifeless matter or wether we'll haunt each other's houses looking for one another, scaring the living shit out of our families.



I do know it took us 4 years to set things straight and get this going without other people's lips and arms getting in the way, and I want to enjoy it as long as I might.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What if it doesn't last long and it is but a flare?
What if when we were created our souls split apart into several different bodies and we'll have to wait until 24 other people's hearts decide to get together so we can feel whole? What if these people are just as confused, and shy as we were and we have to wait 50 more years for our souls to be complete enough for them to be ours to give to each other?

What if I wear you out?

I know I've already slightly worn out a part of you on over-usage. It'll only take that part of you a few days to feel better, but still, wearing your flesh out isn't the same as wearing your emotions out.





----------------------

"Do you remember our first kiss? The way I trembled when I touched your lips.

Everything changed through-out the years the only thing constant was you my dear.
You picked me up when I was down, when you neded laughter I was your clown.
Pretty baby, thanks for saving me.
Pretty baby, thanks for standing by me.

Yes, sometimes we do fight, but don't you love it, honey, how we always put it right?"

Qui êtes-vous?

De noche escuchamos tus pasos.
Alguna vez tomaste la voz de mi hermano prestada para reírte y sus fuerzas para golpear la duela.
Llegaste a ofrecerle un saludo al líder de la razón de esta casa.

Me miras cuando bajo las escaleras semi-dormida y escasamente arropada en las madrugadas.
Te siento pesada en mi espalda cuando subo hacia mi cuarto.

Te siento curiosa.
Te siento mujer.
Te siento enojada.

As dumb as they come.

A pretty face
with wide open brown eyes
starved somewhere near dead.

She's smart enough, manipulative enough to become whatever she wants to become. She chooses to be an idiot, a likeable idiot. You tell a joke, she'll laugh, mouth wide open, gums showing in a grotesque manner; one eye open, one eye half closed, her laughter being pretty much the protrait of a mentally challenged kid. Someone you can trust. What could a retard possibly ever do to you, but follow you around like a dog laughing at everything you say?

She's just loading up on diffamation ammo. She won't say something straight out of order.
She'll analyse you for weeks or months, she'll learn just enough about you to say gruesome things that seem true. Say you're a guy who is constantly trying to seem cute. Desperate attempts, you might say, to pick up a girl (say, maybe two), but you never really mean no harm, still she knows to any other third party in the story, it would seem reasonable that you're acting this nice to overcompensate for something, being a closet rapist.

And she'll say it, she'll spread the word to her friends, to your friends. Say that's why she stopped talking to you, you tried to attack her and they will all believe it.

Prince

When he returned to the willow
he was in fine cheer
He'd build a great moat
and that moat would reach here!

And the maid from the sea
would forever be near
(to his castle, his heart
& all else he held dear)

But the prince had an uncle
who wanted the throne
who found him
and drowned him
and the prince died alone

"Oh my king
Oh my prince
Is it true what I see?
Have you given up air
Out of your love for me?

And these are the parts
that you swore on
so gentle,
and so selflessly

You're just as kind
and as fair, my love,
as I ever thought
you would be!"

There once was a prince
as cold as can be,
who lay very still,
& whose eyes stared blankly
through dark and cool waters
deep, deep, under the sea.

http://emcarroll.com/comics/prince/andthesea.html

F.I.R.S.T.

It all seemed familiar, like I've seen it all before, like even if it was only a VHS recording playing inside my head of things I created it was real. I feel like I created those images a long time ago to visualize something I felt but did not understand. I feel like wanting to remember having played it again, for the first ride; wanting to remember  how it felt natural to translate it into those visuals, those colors, in order to understand it.

My dreams are never surreal, they're day to day happenings mixed with a little adrenaline, like me and my friends, the drama, and some zombies for the extra something now and then. But the things I visualize then, boy, are they something. It used to be colors, shape shifting fleshy, yellow and pink lunchboxes, fleshy cartoons in grey and pink, like looney-toons but with melted off fleshy faces. Fleshy, eye-shaped birthmarks like the one on my foot with my hair and my arms, but now, now it's old ladies stretching their eyes into threads to sew with, yellow fields of tall grass, pieces of wood clanking together, turning softer with each clank, a stub rubbing off on loose vandages, all sorts of crooked things of sensations that I try to understand by translating into these, these lysergic images.

RC

How come everyone else remembers their childhood?
How come they don't describe it as a fuzzy dream of which they were barely a part of?
Why don't I remember anything from before I was five? or from when I was five? or six? or seven?
Why are my childhood memories fragmented?
Why can't I tell made-up memories apart from real memories?

I know about things I did because my parents talk about them in Christmas' and New Year's , sometimes even when I have boys over. I've been taught to remember a stage which should've been formatory through their stories and videotapes of a clumsy, whiny, bad tempered child, but why do I not feel them my own?

I remember only pieces of pre-elementary and elementary.
I remember Vanessa's place and playing with barbies in disco-hawaiian garments, an apartment complex with a brick facade.
Sneaking into my mother's bathroom drawers and taking her make up to school, being busted, being grounded, sneaking back in, being busted, being scolded, sneaking     ..being busted... scolded, neverending.
I think I remember a friend, I think his name was Alex and I think he was friends with Patrick. I remember playing 'Clarissa explains it all' with them, stupid, we kids are.
I remember Gabriel Luna, in my first year of elementary, bright red hair, freckles, green eyes. His skin was so pale, beautiful boy. I was scared of him, I sat next to him (I think), now and then and would stare at him 'til the bell rang. He had such beautiful hand-writing and smelled like glue. I was scared of him.
I remember how I hated Miss Lina, but felt forced to learn to appreciate her because I knew Daniel found her to be nice. How I resented Miss Angelica but loved her for the same reasons.
I remember Aurora's place and that painting on her wall of a younger version of her mother, topless, on a rock, with a mermaid tail. It felt wrong to look at the painting directly, it was my friend's mother, half-naked, posing provocatively, surely it was wrong, surely it was forbidden, my parents would've made me cover my eyes at her had she been part of a movie, topless and provocative like that.


I feel like I started really living when I was 8-9, most memories I quote come from being 13.

What the hell did it mean?
The stubby skin, the yellow fleshy lunchbox? The little feet, the birth-marks? The purple elephant skin?

Where did I learn this?
When did it start?

I swear I'll change just wait and see
And if I don't please make amends with everything we had, again.