Dark Gray

Your true color is dark gray, muddy, half devoid of substance as if it couldn’t be enough. Your halo is gray and tilted to one side and I saw cracks in your demeanor. For a while I looked at myself and saw some of you reflected as I slowly turned light gray from a pure white. Your color is dark gray, beautiful, but grimy and it brings me down and I wonder what it must feel like to carry that weight with you of pouring out uncontrollably as you hold on to fragments from when you fell to the floor and shattered. I am an act of self-love, in constant motion, and ever so willing to give the little pieces of light that I hold in my hands, but I can’t share that light if all you’ll do is obscure my path.

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Half-Baked Innocence

Today I smiled at the thought of deserts consuming entire cities.

It’s not up to you to fix what you did not break. It’s not up to you to chase what does not want to be followed nor to lose your peace for those with no peace in their hearts.

What you’re meant to do is to live well and freely without shackles imposed on you by others. You are meant to cut the threads connecting their words to your head so that you may think truly without their hidden agendas influencing your actions.

You don’t deserve a half-baked innocence.

Persephone Let Her World Die

The glass has been consumed dry and the time ticks the seconds away into the nothingness of an empty memory. They process and release, process and release, and the cycle moves on through endlessly until finally it is time. All are anxious to leave and if disappearing in thin air were a possibility, you would never see anything from them again. There is an overwhelming feeling of lethargy picking at these bones and making the skin parched for rest. Persist, the cycle has not been completed. Respire the stagnant air, for freshness is not possible in this atmosphere and you must take what you can get. Provide your minutes as payment so that you may consume before you are consumed completely. Run down to the basement and greet Hades in his humble abode and perhaps you’ll convince Persephone to return to the world of the living, but even the sweetest flowers are poisoned by the most devilish of men.

Dark Beauty

She was an inspiration to me.

Her easygoing nature

The darkness within her

Still, she lived unforgivingly.

 

Norms did not impede her like they did me.

Her dress was dark and long

The photographs with him

Still for Love, she lived willingly.

 

I wanted her courage.

Her ability to simply be

The human she wanted

Still, there I sat longingly.

Diosa Lunera

Like the moon, occult and distant from ways typical to normality, you shine. The light is not yours to keep, yet you let its colors drape over your silvery surface. So barren and still and not fully colonized, but a spectacle for all, you continue to be. Unaware of those eyes that marvel at your excellence do you purposely hide? Your phases are logical, and you enchant your lovers to their duality, yet you allow the wolves to chase—but what of the “moonless” nights? The clouds are your cover, the rain your screen, but still I wonder if you don’t secretly hope that they look where you have been.

 

Quédate, quédate luna que los lobos te buscan y en el silencio mi corazón late por tu presencia. Contigo siento el amor que por tanto tiempo no he conseguido encontrar. Te busco y te encuentro con mi cabeza bajo mar. Seguí las olas hasta tu paraíso. Ya se que mi idea del cielo es tu soledad.

Insufferable

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?