chancla

She'd tell me this story of how her mother often chased her around their home with a leather sandal. She'd run to the barn and climb to the top, knowing she couldn't go after her herself. She'd wait for hours until her father got home so he could talk her mother down. He'd climb up for her, and help bring her down. She would tell me how furious her mother would get and how she'd still mutter threats under her breath.

Just wait until your father leaves.

I never said it out loud, but I guess you become your parents.

behind the loner

we left during the night.
you told me to grab everything i could carry on my own, because we may not comeback. i couldn't grasp the severity of it, so i left behind all of my favorite books. in the hurriedness and black of the night, i also forgot a jacket; i spent most of that winter cold and shaking behind classroom doors.
the next few months were a whirlwind of going in and out of places. what i remember the most however, was my growing darkness. as we shifted from room to room, i only shifted deeper and deeper.

return

i heard he'd left a feline in the south and started making his way back west. by the end of the summer he arrived at my front door with his fur as radiant as ever. he says he's been roaming past the fields he used to viciously graze, looking for a patch to do his mending. 

but darling, there's no mending to be done. you've migrated thousands of miles and back with intentions to bandage wounds that do not exists outside of your own mind. you've come back expecting healing, and instead we've all lined up to wonder, "why now?" 

purple

i used to touch the bruises on my legs because the surge of pain would remind me over and over again. i would replay the moments in my head trying to remember what i did so i could avoid it ever repeating.

you always told me to wear jeans the next day so no one would see. you said it so lovingly, like you cared about not putting me in that awkward situation. i eventually convinced myself i didn't like shorts or skirts anyway.

do you think that in some weird twisted way, that's why purple is my favorite color?

wingless

the first time he came to me was in my sleep. he had feathers the color of coal and wings that smelled of salt. his skin, even with all of its scars, appeared to glow under the moon. months later i found him wingless on the beach, his back still bleeding. he said the water called him to me, waves guiding him to my shore. i brought him home that night, and every night after. i would fall asleep to the sound of his voice, dreaming of his wings. he'd be gone by sunrise, but always returned with the moon.

beatrice

it's no secret that your dark skin glows under the moon's reflecting light. but what you may not know is that the night isn't your only home, beatrice; the sun yearns for your return. it calls out at sunrise, wanting to kiss your back and shoulders. it misses filling your hair with scents of warmth and life.

i know your heart has learned to love the darkness in all of it's glory. i know you wake as the sun goes down and immediately reach for the moon. perhaps you can be a nightingale; singing both at night and in day.

voids

it started with night sweats; he would wake up drenched, even when the room was set to sixty-two degrees. i don't know what he dreamt of, or if he dreamt at all, but i know that he'd toss and turn. one day, he woke up to the entire bed covered in sweat. he dressed that morning and never made it back. i heard that he'd jumped into a lake to cool himself down and no one could get him out. they tried shouting, crying, and threatening, but nothing worked. he found the lake filled what his insides had been missing.

artwork by margarita

abuse

there's a circle of events present. i find myself in this roundabout that i had no idea existed until the same scenario played out again. here i am, sitting in the very same table that i left four years ago. i am having supper alone and for very much the same reasons, until you arrive. hundreds of miles of difference and here we are. in the same table. the same meal and at nearly the same fucking time.

after a piercing silence i think, maybe i can get away from this once and for all... never look back. perhaps we can even get rid of supper altogether and never eat again. i can always find a different way to feed my soul with the inconvenience of our shared truth. but it's dark now and i'm outside, jumping into the cold water by myself. you would think we have grown accustomed and maybe even found some comfort in this. in recognizing the routine of having no one to keep me warm afterwards. i sink deeper and deeper into the water and still, you're inside. no amount of screaming or calling out will bring anyone or anything forward.

my heart begins to beat slower and slower after the jump. it has mellowed out to a single soft pulse barely recognizable to my own chest.
tell me, love, will the moon be witness yet again to another hopeless night? will she remain still as she watches the same blood spill again and again and again?

i look to her, find me floating, sweet moon.  do not let me overdose on this idealization of love. do not let me attempt my own ending to this tragedy.

i float through it all without drowning.
once i dry off i pretend it never happened and i go back to climbing up the same mountain. i find myself at the top again and my heart begins to race once more.

find me at the top and join me, i call out.

perhaps there will be more on the table this time around.
maybe the coincidence of it all is but a mere error in the loading of data onto this day.
perhaps the similar dance had left me all too cautious and conclusion-seeking.
perhaps the silence has been much shorter than i have made it out to be and all i need to do is try again.

perhaps i want nothing to do with change and i will recreate the same damn thing that has happened time and time and time and time again.

here i was.
here i am.
here i will be.

and  my mind and heart will be sealed off and my emotions will be so pleasantly delivered that when i set fire to your soul, you will have no idea where it came from. when i combust in your mind you will be too drunk with my name to realize what is happening. make no mistake that i have written the starting page and the last ones. i have numbered them all with red ink and have bookmarked the fall.

allow me to lead you into that room with the supper table, we both know how this ends.

the stories of lovers

i was the right girl,
for all the wrong reasons.
he couldn't give me up,
always shooting up,
savored every drop,
...then dropped me.

i was the right girl,
for all the wrong reasons.
thought he could hold back,
possibly throw me back,
stole what he didn't have,
then stole my heart.

i was the right girl,
for all the wrong reasons.
i could never leave.
he forced me to believe,
that he'd always be around
...until he wasn't.

   i was the right girl,
   for a short period of time
   in which it took to escape
   what once was your life.

   i was the right girl,
   perhaps honestly so,
   never thoughtfully so,
   for all the wrong reasons.

crashing

and yes we've had a few drinks

to remember all the things

that we have selfishly done

oh, so cautiously done.

and we regress and progress

to that night we undressed

all our desires and regrets

and all else you can detect

from our skin's drunken scent. 

we arrive and we leave

done things you wouldn't believe

our newest and worst

lies never rehearsed 

hours of passion and lust

never again can you trust

So yes, we've had plenty to drink

so to remember all the things

that we have selfishly done

so lovingly done

so viciously done