They’re all moths perched on a leaf as they wait for nightfall only so they could fly through your window and orbit the artificial light.
From where enters your strength, your will to live? It reminded of how battered and bruised I have been. A memory of black clouds coming down onto me haunts my head and I had hoped that I had healed that trauma, but they asked me: where does that strength come from? There were no good answers to that question. Perhaps it was this ancestral DNA or my mother’s mitochondrial DNA that let me live though the struggle. How ungrateful I must seem, to have that survivor’s will and to hate the act of having to survive. She must look at me with disdain or maybe with pity at knowing that her scars are inscribed into my genetic makeup too.
Why have you stayed? I am asked this question, not in so many words. Sadly, no responses escape because I hold the gates tightly shut for fear of being seen as the fool. Who could have thought that this would be the woman striving to bear the fruits of my labor—so hindered by a simple soul?
It’s so sad to be so intelligent yet to not know when to pull back. So disappointing to keep it so still—in many ways, you wish things would change—yet all remains like bones preserved at a dig site. Who would have thought it would be this fucked up to the point where it doesn’t mean anything (what do you represent?) or make any sense (how did this happen?) because it all means too much. I’m puzzled when I look in the mirror and see these brown eyes staring back blankly, but they are oceans of hurt. These eyes are like empty cups that nothing can fill or will dare to try—bottomless like the space between planets. She asked who sees what I write, I told her that I would, and she must pity me. She must think, look at that poor woman who hasn’t learned how to swallow sorrow the way we all have. She doesn’t know that sorrow ebbs out from a mouth that has said all she could only to have it fall on deaf ears. He wants to process, but he doesn’t understand that process is all that I do and so my thoughts change quickly, but I said I wasn’t fickle. Perhaps I lie because that’s what I want to be, intransient. I feel like this world made me to flow with suffocating feelings and with impermanence so I could never believe in a god that would go so deeply against my wishes, who further guides me to dig my grave. Desamparada is the word that captivates the feeling inside my chest, and I wish I could scream it out of my body but if she screams in the middle of the woods and there’s no one left to hear her, did she ever really scream?
It’s hard to find the space to breathe in between the places where the thoughts belong. It’s that piece in the middle of the inhale… exhale… that is crowded with voices that speak works as if they were singing songs. It’s just that the voices are high pitched and the sing-song is exhausting to my ears. They’re loud and shrilling like old gears grinding against one another chipping away at the atoms that make up its components. I beg for silence, but my mind is unfocused because it forgets that if you’re accustomed to sound pollution, the silence is shrilling too. So again… I’m stuck in the in-between of the inhale…exhale… as I will my lungs to remember what it feels like to breathe.
Mis pensamientos corren a sitios indeterminados mucho como el sonido de mi voz que se encuentra siempre corriendo como los chorros del rio. Mis ojos me recuerdan de lluvias atraídas por dolores de cabeza que hieren la mente y los pensamientos característicos de voces calladas. La lluvia sigue cayendo en aguaceros ligeros porque parece que ni el cielo recuerda como contar los intervalos.