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...