hopelessness, mess, loch ness

Here I am trying to stop my body from not working.
Here is always the same, stained walls, overcrowded feeling empty.
The memory does not record and we are left with no recurrent images,
                                                                  with no images at all.
There is no danger that we know, only the ever-present discomfort,
nauseating smells, a knowledge that can't be kept.
I have stopped trying completely.

genre twist

The room filled with baby laughter
and suddenly they are all our sons.
It's a finale worthy of a soap opera.

Then they are still our babies but
we are irresponsable teen parents,
like in a shitty reality show.

But really they're are robot babies
sent from the government to kill us.
A cool sci-fi, 'hasta la vista, baby' style.

Of course when we wake up,
it was all just a dream. Or was it?
As cliché as it seems.

a lover, divided

  You live in a house by the sea. The front porch meets the sand, the sand meets the sea, the sea meets the horizon and so on. Your house, made of wood and painted white, used to be your father's, and his father helped him build it. They were both sailors, as all the other men in your family, except from you. You were fated to be a sailor's lover.

  Fate, you know, is a cruel mistress, but crueler is the sea. Fate brought you a sailor to love and give your life to, and the sea took him away from you whenever she pleased.

  You sleep to the sound of rolling waves, you wake up to the sound of the waves, rolling. Sometimes the sea is calm and you can't hear them, so you are calm too. But inevitably it comes back, because you live in a house by the sea, the sea who took your lover away.

  Every passing ship is his ship. Every sandy footprint on your porch is his footprint, and you are already prepared to scowl at him for taking so long, or jump his bones. 

  Will the sea ever bring your lover back? They say she is temperamental and spoiled, claiming sailors to herself and keeping them caged forever in the bottomless waters, like trophies in a cabinet. You understand her, you do - if you could, you would keep your lover locked too, so he would never again leave you.

  Maybe he belongs to the sea. It could be, as frightening as it sounds, that you are fated to be his and he is fated to be hers. Who wouldn't favour the powerful and endless ocean to a weak and lovestruck little man? But you won't stop waiting. You'll never leave the house by the sea.

  There are no other houses by the sea, not in this zone. The coast here is too windy, the water too cold, the shore too shallow for ships to anchor. The bay is not far, nor expensive, but you won't move there. When -if- he comes, he'll come back to your house by the sea.

  Once you thought the sea was punishing you for not choosing to be hers, but you always knew it not to be truth. She is the one who didn't call for you, like she did to your grandfather, and to your father, and to your lover after that. There is no choosing with cruel mistresses, only claiming and taking and the longing she left you with.

  In the summer days, you sweat and smell, not worrying about him coming when you are in such a state. (He will be worse, salty and hairy but neither will care.) And if you think of going into the water, into the tiny waves that crash and roll in the sand, inside her and closer to him, you quickly try to shake those thoughts off. That would be cheating, and it could quickly crush the little chances you have.

  Time passes quickly in the city, slowly on the countryside, and not at all in the coast. Sand only works in hourglasses. The sea is timeless, and maybe that is why he forgot it was time to come back.

  If with the foam came only his body, pale and swollen, a disfigured soulless memento of what he used to be, you would give her the satisfaction of shedding tears. Your traitorous body would produce salty water, and she would have won twice.

  If, however, the foam brings no body, no men, no lover, then you two are in a tie, and somehow that is even worse. Cruel mistresses prefer to win.

  You will, some mornings, see him at the door. You will open the door and watch the waves mocking you. You will call the doctor and give him a piece of your mind. You will, nonetheless, wait for him in the house by the sea.

  Pour some tea, cook his favourite meal. He's still not home. The radio says a storm is coming. The fishermen are not to sail today. Pour some scotch, dinner getting cold in the kitchen table.

  Everyone knows you are not open to reason, or whatever they call 'losing faith' these days. Somewhere along the line - you wouldn't know when, since time doesn't pass here - they understand you will only stop waiting when you see a body, dead or alive. So, naturally, they stop knocking at the door, stop coming for tea.

So, naturally, you are startled by the knocks. But even more by the body.

publishing a book is for pussies, and I'm too afraid to be even that

Nothing ever lives to my expectations
but I probably should stop poisoning
and keeping 'em in jars without holes,
specially if they won't stop screaming.

using body tissue to clean up blood

There's a tree growing on the top of my heart,

                                and the roots are strangling it,

                                                                    strangling it,

                                                                 strangling me.

There's a heart growing underneath my tree,

                                and it beats, it beats, it beats.

                                                           My tree shakes,

                                                               not used to it.

There's a heart and a tree growing inside me,

                          and I want to rip both out, now.

                                I only ask for the forgiveness

                                of both lovers and ecologists.

prince charmeless

Eric kisses like it's a chore. Bathing me with saliva and feeding me his tongue.
Eric touches as if he was doing me a favour. Forceful, insipid, unskillful.
Eric fucks, finishes and rolls over. Snores. He must think I'm a sex doll.
Eric dies with a knife in his chest, but I swear to the police it wasn't me.
It was every women
               dissatisfied.

autumn came, despair and craze

Eventually, all feelings pass.
Eventually, everything passes.
Nothing is forever, forever
will the nothingness be.

The lake, the temperate forest,
we're in a postcard scenery.
I worry about you and me,
stepping on dry leaves while
we head to the lake where
I promised to drown you.

No more broken promises,
you say. You're over-reacting,
I say. But I drown you anyway.
You were asking for it. And
the adrenaline passes eventually.

Sui is by my side, will I ever be by Sui's side?

One can only go the distance for so long
          until one ends up burning the maps
        and throwing away the running shoes.
One grows weary, as the leaves, even though
        it may not yet be one's turn to fall.
     It is that one saw too many summers
             in the same year, or is it that the
              summer days all feel the same?
 One wonders, sometimes, how would
           the floor feel like, or if the wind
         would carry us carelessly, and
        how would freedom taste like.
 One never dares, thou, the summer days
          remain all the same (such a shame)
         and autumn may never come.

trite

You say I only say mean things to you,
                 well, I'll try and be nice.
       You are a very sweet whiny bitch
   with a devil soul and psychopath eyes.

I'm glad we both feel this is a mistake,
       things will get done much easier now.
 A bullet to the head may not be very elegant,
           but it gets the job done.       Pow!

And now, back to the show,
    we find ourselves in a catch-22.
   I daydream about you needing me
   but those dreams are never true.

bittersweet déjà vu

I'm six, five, four, the sun shining oh-so-bright on our golden skin and Caetano Veloso is singing on the speakers about the treasures of our tropical land, while we create memories that will last forever, or at least until the Alzheimer gets to us.

Remember when love was something to die for? Cupid was firing poisoned arrows by then, and boy, did they stung. We had everything planned like typical teenagers with delusions of adulthood always do, vowing never to change, and we were still better than the normal adult after all. Still better than the adult us.


(I forgive you for delaying the end of the world, God, but it would have been nice to give us the eutanasia button I asked, wouldn't it? I was looking forward to testing it myself.)

barely human, mostly animal

Embrace your darkness,
let it guide you through the night,
it'll save you and lose you,
for it is the inner you,
living.

Embrace your bestiality,
bite and bruise and mark,
it'll show you the reason
why you act reasonable
at all.

Embrace your instincts,
and open yourself
to the big nothing
that is the future,
that is our lives,
and it's fine.

drag your teeth across my skin, rip me, feast me

Show me your teeth.
   I'll make you cry to quench my thrist,
                      'cause I'm spitting feathers
                                 from the phoenix I ate,
        and his fire is running down my throat,
  ashes pooling in my stomach acid.

Show me your teeth again.
  Let me twist your words
       to have you untwist them,
           for word play is my foreplay
       in this treacherous game
  where our bonds we forsake.


Show me your teeth once more.
    This time will do it differently,
       maybe in reverse, or the other way around
                anyway you want, don't want, demand,
      wasting possibilities, endlessly spinning,
  until it goes back to the way it was.


I feel you hiding a smirk against my skin,
let the war begin, let us show our teeth.

no place to hide, the walls have ears and eyes

You wake up one morning and something is off,
so you go see him,
and he sees you,
the girl on her knees blowing him sees you,
and you feel like running away from those eyes,
so you do.

That's why. I know it's not actually a reason.
It was the trigger.

It's why you ran home. You ran, you ran, you ran,
and somewhere between it began to rain,
there were people yelling so much it became a brainstorm,
there was a jungle of glass and metal,
there was a desert you could easily cross
as it was man-made (and what is not?).

You ran home.
But there's no home anymore!
There are eyes staring at you with pity.
There are consolation prizes,
effortless and useless and
everything less.
There is less,
less than nothing,
which is way worse than nothing.
At least nothing gives you a fresh start.

Once again, you find yourself running away from pervasive eyes.

clinical depression is not a tumor, but it'll make you wish it was

The bed smells as if someone's been in there too long.
Someone means you.
Oi, get out of my dreams!
I hate your stupid fake pretencious british accent.
Fuck, you're always spoiling my few good hours of sleep.
No, I'm not. You are. I'm here because you let me in.
I'm not exactly proud of that.
There's really nothing to be proud of. You tell people all your secrets,
even the ones you invent to make your life look interesting.
I tell other people's secrets too.
Yes, I was going to mention that. You talk too much.
Well, that's of no use with you, is it? You never hear.
You wouldn't know, would you? You never let anyone else speak.
...
...
You know what? I'm done playing this game with you. 
Let me sleep my fucking hours.
...
'Cause you're always fucking accusing me and I'm so tired of you.
...
You don't even know my reasons. You don't even know me, but act like you do.
...
I hate myself. I'm so lonely. I want to die.
There's no reason to keep on living, and worse,
there never was.
...
I wish I knew how to end all this.
I wish I had the courage.
I'm glad you don't.

Those nights when you can't sleep, look up to the sky and yell "Why me?"

We were laying on the top of your car one night when you said
"this is that kind of love people write about in the books".
                          I knew, then, that you didn't understand a thing about love.

Falling stars were falling and sick people were dying and
                                             love was just a fool's paradise.

The other night you asked me to tell you a story,
                    maybe because the darkness was swallowing you
               and fear was consuming your limbs,
 but even tough I could have thought of a million things to say,
            "I don't know any stories" is what came out of my mouth.


TV really did kill my imagination,
             and memory along with,
                                          didn't it?


It's just, nowadays, there's so much going on!
       There's the new Ipad,
                 the prince's wedding,
                       and all those people dying
            from hunger and violence all over the world.
           It gets so hard to keep on,
                and you never really know anything,
                  too many information and too little neutrality,
         well, knowledge is just another weapon.
    Nobody is really safe.


 So I blurt all this to you and, luckily,
         you're not afraid of the dark anymore.
                  Just afraid of the world.

Wasting time doesn't matter, you're going to die anyway

You gave me your disease, yes.
Growing and multiplying inside me.
They'd call me the Queen of Fertility,
if they could see.
And I keep trying to fight it,
'cause I couldn't prevent it.
They'd call me the Queen of Medicine,
if they could talk.

I wish I could bring myself to care,
but you see, the Blame Game it's getting a little bit old.
And also, I got used to giving things up
after you stole the leftovers
of what we had.

Apologies are for hypocrites

I'm sorry I ruined your dream
                              of being Prom Queen.
I'm sorry I burned down your Barbie house,
                  and drove your Barbie convertible through the fire.
     (Boom!)
I'm sorry for not being sorry, except I'm not.
       I wanted to watch your dreams all burn.
       I wanted to destroy all the things you thought you achieved,
              'cause it's not fair if you don't start from blank.

I'm sorry for wanting your tears, and even more for wanting your screams.

I'm not sorry at all.

metaphorical boy as my nom de plume

The odds of being in a plane crash are of 1 in 187,439.
      The odds of being a castaway are much lower, and yet here
   we are, defying all odds because you wanted
                       to visit your family on Christmas and we had to catch a last-minute plane.
         Now you all know why it can be good to fight over whose parents' house to go on Holidays.
 Except it isn't when a day later you're stuck
                     in a desert island in a completely non-romantic scenario
            and you're at it again, screaming and throwing rocks instead of
                          house supplies at each other.

Home is where you can argue with your lover.

 Our problem is not surviving, it never was. We can both manage
            to lit a little bonfire, thanks to your obsession with
those survival Discovery programs that I always said would never help.
                   Oh, the irony.
                The problem is that there's no way this won't have after-effects,
      and they make dying look like a lovely alternative.

Well, this situation is starting to look like our normal life.

    It's late but I'm not tired, neither are you, but you're putting up that
                                                    same old boring show,
      so you can avoid the awkward talks and the heartbreaking gazes,
          because at this point none of us wants to admit defeat
                           but none of us really won.

  It's always like this with you, I know the protocol by heart,
              I can make you smile but you are never happy,
         and say hurtful things but you never raise your voice.
                              I'll I end up killing myself just to get a reaction out of you.

 I should have known better.

    You believe anything that can't be done with hands,
                 can be done with teeth,
                     and I'm just waiting for you to
                                              bite my head off.
         To take revenge on me for holding onto hope,
                            when you abandoned it while the oxygen masks were falling
                                                                            and the plane was crashing
                                                                            and the people were dying.

Hope is a sinking ship and I have to abandon it, I am no captain.

   I feel like a shell, and you could pick me up
         listen to the sounds of the city,
     the music I sing all day long,
    dreams I had and never shared,
   a way out of here.
                Oh, you'll never pick me up,
                     and I'll be forever in the sea,
                         forever buried in sand.

It keeps you up all night (why are you alive, Columbine?)

Sleep deprivation is much like the side effects of cocaine, thinks Columbine. Only I prefer the latter.
But lately there's so much more of the former- her hands shake, she feels numb, and for the whole day she can't complete even the simplest of the tasks. Great, more wasted time. Like she didn't have plenty of it already.

There are few things Columbine hates more than wasting time (like hiccups and existence).

Sleep deprivation is a constant reminder of what you've done wrong. You're alone in the Universe. All hope is useless. You should just die, it whispers in your ear.

Why are you alive, Columbine?
Where do you think you are going?
Why are you alive?

Act III

I'll be your Frigga One Eye, your Jennifer Hills, your Hayley Stark. I'll make you tear yourself open and then I'll sew you back together, just so I can watch it all again. Over and over until you're nothing but a bunch of fresh scars.

Just like I once was.

That's the thing about revenge, you see: you never get sick of it. It's high octane fuel when you're an adrenaline addict. Not a bright outcome for a pretty girl like me, really.

Act II

                    I never like dogs.

I guess that says a lot about me, doesn't it?

  I don't know. I was never great at reading people,
       the innocence in me keeping me from seeing the evil,
                             the reasons beneath words and actions.
Now I tell myself you can't really know someone,
            but again, maybe I'm just trying to trick myself into feeling
                     better about not knowing something.

    You see, I built my life around knowledge.
                    Until one day, they took all I knew and threw it at the wall,
  it shattered like glass -
                                   the knowledge and the wall
    that all that knowledge had built around me,
                         until I was surrounded by words, words, words,
                             thick and solid like red suburban bricks,
                                            and they meant nothing,
                                                      for I couldn't see.

   Thus I find myself free, and find a new land,
               new adventures, but I've become
                                empty again, and I walk around confused.
         Should I fill myself back again? If so,
                                           what should I stuff me with?

             Or should I stay empty until a sign comes to me?

                          Well, I can only hope it isn't a dog.

Sing-songed medieval tragedies.

I can be loud, can scream,
but I don't want to be the girl who cried wolf.
I can be loud, I'd scream,
if that didn't make me the girl who cried wolf.
I can be loud, just to be mean,
would you believe me if I cried wolf?

I should go back to sleep,
stop counting to protect the sheep,
maybe they'll be scared if I cry wolf.

No, you wouldn't believe if I cried wolf.
You cry witch, you cry killer,
you yell burn.

And I smell like roasted meat.
I smell like dead wolf.

nothing

Let me take you home, he says. I want to hurt you, he says.
              But he says an awful lot of things, with a smile
          plastered on his face like they're all true, and I can't tell,
                                   I can't tell the difference.
          And you'd say I've been lied to enough to be
        able to realise, for practice makes perfect,
                  but I learned from practice,
                              nothing is perfect.

they say "there's nothing to lose when nobody knows your name"

I measure time with the amount of things I accomplish,
   then normally, it feels like time never passes,
         like I'm never building the ship that's supposed to take me
             to the promised land, the land of joy,
                 where days are never the same.

of genetics and what it did to my brain-mouth conection

I rather shush, seem unfazed, because
sometimes I want to show you care,
but I end up being harsh instead

I rather stay here quiet, you'll say
that I never did much for you but I did
I avoid fighting with you
what else could you want?

and yet I can't control my mouth
at times like these, I hear a sound
and then I've spilled, so unaware,
all the secrets left unsaid

behind her back is exactly were Columbine hearing is at its best

Stay away from Columbine, they said. She's no good.
Vicious Columbine, they would whisper behind her back, day after day after day after day until it became all day long. Suddenly they were just faceless voices who plagued her every thought. Suddenly she can't sleep at night, she doesn't wanna wake at all.

Sadly, she thinks, the doctor says is not terminal and not curable.
The doctor also says is all in her head and she knows is in her head, she can hear it, you don't need a PhD to tell that. He says the only way to deal with this would be pills.

Here the funny thing about pills: they didn't solve Columbine's problems. The pills shushed the voices in her head, but they didn't make people any less mean.

beloved sister

All I wanted was to grow up
                              so I could grow old with you,
but instead we grew apart.
Maybe childhood is like a nightmare that takes
                  too many time too realize which kind of dream it is.
                                                                Or maybe it was me.
                   Perhaps I was wrenched and rotten and misguided and you didn't really thought
it would last, but it did.
            Abnormal children can still be adored, abnormal adolescents
                                                        should be hid in their bedrooms.
They must not disturb our fabricated peace.