January 20, 2015


Do que adianta te falar dos meus números, nomes, casos e pronomes se nada disso vai acrescentar? Meus gêneros, subgêneros, falantes, brincantes, agonizantes entrelaços laçados pela falta de escolha ou pelo caminho de folhas, o que quer que seja. Ouvir da tua boca o que a minha não quer falar, sentir no teu aperto o meu pestanejar. O que importa é que conto em uma das mãos aqueles que amei, e tu também, enquanto sugo os teus olhos e coloco mais duas letras formando amarei. Amarei e amo, amo e amarei. Até porque em terra de desgraçados e embaralhados e naufragados, realmente, quem ama de verdade só pode ser algum tipo de rei. E não te preocupas que não te faço de bobo da corte e do meu passado não sei mais nada além de memórias do que um dia já foram. Assombrada ainda sim, esse exagerado medo de filmes de terror e espíritos e tudo o que me tira do conforto de não pensar que um dia tudo se repita de novo. Se eu deixar, eu sei, eu sei. E se tu deixares também. Mas enquanto puder ouvir a tua voz...

"Deixe as flores morrerem, amor. Criando a tua redoma, te pondo em meio à essência que, fugaz, sai de ti sem que percebas. És presente enquanto fores e que assim seja. Como as flores. Só renasce em mim, ao tempo que puderes - se por mim, sempre. Se para mim, eternamente."

January 11, 2015


I don't know what this is. Or I guess I kind of do, but it's been so long. You make it so much easier for me to feel pretty. To feel worthy. It's hard to believe everything you say, but it's a process. I believe when you say you love me, but I have my doubts about you not going anywhere. I hope you don't. All I want is for you to stay. I can't shake my sickness off in an instant, and neither can you. We can be a fortress. I do believe in that. I want to love myself as much you do. If you're calm next to me, it's for a reason. When you're not, it's also a good sign. We get to participate in each other's lives. We get to say "we". Still, I'm so scared all the time, even though I feel safe as I've always needed to feel safe. Scared something will happen to you, or to me, or hold us apart. It's my anxiety, you get it. I'm not sad, but I've been crying all the time... because I can. I know if I cry, you'll be there. Actually be there and cry with me, if you feel like it. It's like I'm setting free everything that I am, all you saw in me and I wasn't able to see for quite a bit. It's a process. And we're holding hands throughout it. You'll never be my whole life, but you'll surely be my best guide and best companion. You make me so proud. You can be my Sun, I can be your Moon. Or we don't have to. It's all a process.


January 02, 2015


"Dissociation, 2013", Lindsey Schulz 
I had been in doubt for most part of my life, but always precisely sure of everything needed to be done and what would consequences be, and what should be the next steps to be taken. Certainly, this all came in handy when giving out advice, instead of the obvious path of following the ideas myself. For that, I remember wishing I were one of the "normal ones". Leading a simple life, finishing college, finding an average income with planned vacations kind of job, having a family and living in the suburbs with a big dog. It sound reasonable and achievable. However, I went lost in the woods of my own selfish needs and impulses every person of such duality often gets. 

For a while, I was unaware of the importance in making up my mind and felt like not gracefully floating through life as it was. Hopping from man to woman, consistently, and wearing the crown of hearts as my guide at the same time. I thought there was no meaning where there was not love, until it suddenly hit me that looking everywhere for a cure to no disease was no enough to burst my light, and I had so much light. Ray by ray, in low speed, my lightness was turned off in disguise, just like white simple sheets were place over them. There was this beam inside still, flicking and flicking and almost dying after every heartache and stupidly idealizing whoever came next. 

It was my fault until I got to come to my senses and forgive not only them, floods of darkness onto me, but myself for encouraging all that was wrong with me and my need to love and cherish and settle. So on, I have been and still am the love of their lives, which is by itself a heavy weight to carry. And to others, gladly, but not all, I was still someone to remember. As for me... I only remember the ones who'd hurt me like they were the only ones who mattered and who I believed to have loved me as stories portray. I can't reckon when or why it happened, but that was exactly what my doctor was trying to make me realize: I learned love, real love, only came with struggle and hurt and pain. So this would have to end.

December 10, 2014


All of the most beautiful love songs have been sung for me once. Please, don't. Just don't.

I've been struggling to remind me of how I was worth. 

I'd had everything.
And for a while... I don't.

But now I do.

Don't I?
Can I?
Should I?
Will I?

How many times he told me not to close my heart...
I've let myself down.

All those beautiful love songs.
All my innocence was gone.

November 02, 2014


I thought of writing something nice for you. 
But then I can't.

I'm a bubble. 

You could blow me out
in a matter of 

Have you got the handle?

Throw me colors so I can paint something.

In all this rubble
it's not easier
this time.

"I'll forever wish other people wouldn't touch me.
Scramble me.
Scorch me."

Irritatingly repeated 'till it made itself true.
And I shall remain in hazard groove.

I can't blow air in me like I'm some hot air balloon.

Maybe you could.
Maybe you would.

Have you got the handle?

I'm still a bubble
throughout this rubble.

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