D.

She had forgotten how much she hated when somebody says that everything happens for a reson. She knew it, I mean, who doesn`t? It was just that she hated how it sounded, she hated how those words could never make her feel better -or at least less guilty and scared.

She took the subway. For the first time in her life, the eyes that were looking at her didn`t bug her at all, her mind was so far away that she almost missed her stop.When she went down, a warm tear ran down her face. That´s how she realized she had been crying all the way home. 

An old woman looked at her with pity while a little boy stared at her and asked her mom why was that lady crying.

She took the stairs to exit and before the sunlight could reach her skin she sighed out loud. It was the saddest sigh nobody had ever heard. The world seemed to stop around her while she kept climbing the stairs, then the light stroke her face and the truth in her eyes was revealed for all to see: she was sorry.


Taking part in Thursday Poets Rally

Hurt.

Every single inch of my skin hurts.

I am such a fool... 

Picnic.

Tall trees, pure air.

I looked at the sky, I am wrong, I know nothing. I wish I knew how...

Fatal play.

She stood in front of the mirror, looked at her frickled, pretty face and laughed. She stared at every single inch of her and counted the moles on her arms: "Eight" she said as she walked away.

Arlenne went to the kitchen and ate a piece of cake: "Two pieces left". Then she went to the bathroom and counted the spots on the blue tile and after that she counted the number of coins that were over the living room´s table.

To be honest, Arlenne had not the slightest idea of what to do or where to go, so she flunged herself into the armchair and cried. She was desperate and alone.

Suddenly, fear and rage took over her. She wanted to escape, she wanted to run away. She felt like hiding under the table and crying her eyes out the whole night through: she could not take it, but she knew she had to.

For the first time in a lot of time, Arlenne had made a mistake she couldn´t write about. She thought of calling her sister, of calling her best friend, of calling her mother, of calling her aunt, of calling his boss, of calling him, but she didn´t. Her life had changed so much during the last few months that suddenly every single important thing in her life was connected to each person she cared about. She couldn´t say it, they would hate her!

That night Arlenne cried and cried and died. They said it was suicide, but I know that she died from fear and sadness, because for the first time in her life, she made a mistake that she could not talk about with him, because it was about him...  She portrayed a betrayal.

Cowboy painting...

"He does not love you" my mom told me once ".He would be here if he did"

I am lying in bed -his bed- and Im fighting myself not to look at the clock, but it´s 4:00 a.m. because he is not here and everytime he leaves after spending the night with me it´s 4:00 a.m.

Where does he go so early? Does he leave at the same time even when I am not here?

I turn my face and search for the scent of water and salt his hair left on the pillow, then I cry for that scent reminds me of the sea and of tears.

It´s 5:00 a.m. and still I can´t sleep. It is as if I had to be waiting for him, hoping for him to come back with a smile on his face and tell me he went running or cooking or riding... anything, but he does not.

It´s 6:00 a.m. and the sun is rising in the sky. The empty side of the bed is no longer warm and my tears are dry by now. 

A beam of light slips through the blue window, he is not there and the only thing my tears allow me to see is his cowboy painting: cold and mocking -just like him- on his pale wall.

 Short Story Slam :)

Two words

This is the second time I get this feeling: words travelling through my veins. They are accumulating on my fingertips trying to get out of my body, trying to capture my ideas on the paper, ideas that I am no capable to express.

So, today,  I only have two words to say: I´m sorry...

Untold.

Once again the rose in my hand shuddered, the petals bleed hot chocolate and the leaves cracked under my feet.

It was like having something you can´t control under control: imposible to avoid but avoiding it anyway. Is that even possible? I stopped asking myself that question a long time ago. 

I write about chocolate, roses and leaves because I can´t allow myself to talk straight. I can´t change metaphores into concrete concepts, I don´t think I am strong enough, at least not today.

How horrible it is to own words, feelings and stories you can´t told! Why can´t they be told? They would be disastrous and harming for the ones we love... 

Taking part in Thursday Poet´s Rally

Madness

Short Story Slam

Year: 2011

-You see, Dany -he said -, I´ve been stolen too many times in my life. I´ve lost  my wallet, my suitcase, my food and even my shoes and nothing had ever pissed me off so much.

They were standing near the surprised crowd who was taking photographs of the hot air balloons. 

-They are so colorful -he said again -. Seriously, I´ve never been so pissed off before! How could they do it Dany?

Dany, his dog, stared at him with eyes open wide and moved its tale in an anxious way.

-Dany! These people have stolen my idea! I created those submarines!I am Jacques Montgolfier! I wonder how will they take them to the ocean, Dany... 

The feeling...

The feeling that something`s wrong.

Not knowing if it is your fault,

if it could have been different or

if it means something else...

Like holding a very fragile rose in your hand:

Trembling because of the power we have over it:

easy to cut off, very hard to keep alive.

Signals and signs, 

are we supposed to follow our hearts?

Promising poets poetry cafe

Thanks a lot for the award :) I accept it.

I´d like to nominate Dsnake

Dear Alex:

I know you´d never hurt my feelings, because you´ve shown me that you care. But yesterday you hurt a deepest part of me: you hurt my art.

I once noticed, when I was playing violin, that you stared at me with doubt and a little bit of rejection. Perhaps I was not playing how I should be playing according to your idea of good music. I stopped. I thought I was being stupid, I thought you were right.

But now you´ve limited my art. You say I should not refer to things the way I do. You said that I should be careful of not flying too much, of not making it too sublime.

I am a writer, we are supposed to do that! We find words to make something simple the most sublime thing on Earth, because that is how we feel about it. That is how we see life: we fly.

I thought you were the one person on Earth that could somehow understand me, but now the hole in my stomach is back: you do not and you will never will.

Forever yours,
Dalhila.

Taking part in Thursday Poet´s Rally

Freud

Here I am, in class. Learning about Freud and how he classified us all like living beings who are nothing but a bunch of impulses acting and thinking just to achieve their sexual satisfaction disguised under a mask of art.
To be honest, I do not believe so, but dont tell my teacher or she'll be pissed off. I believe we're more than that, we're unbelievable: we're humans and that's all.
Oh my... How fastidiously vulnerable we are!