El discreto encanto de Maria

Prefiero ser cenizas que polvo. - Jack London

“I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.”

– b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)

Cuidado, yo

Yo huyo. En algún punto ten la certeza de que intentaré huir, de que mi mente sacará la cuenta y me dirá que sobro, me anunciará nuevamente que no pertenezco y me iré sin mirar atrás, le dejaré a alguien en el mundo en sus manos y no podré darle una explicación que no sea que de la noche a la mañana el cuerpo me pidió correr aunque doliera. Le huyo a la intimidad, a la idea de que alguien puede ser imprescindible y por ende su ausencia puede doler, le he huido a mi familia, a mis amigos,  a mis parejas y sobre todo a mi misma. Pasa algo gracioso, los que huimos no sabemos perseguir a nadie, a veces (todo el tiempo) quisiera tener ese cartel de advertencia. Si huyo es porque alguien me dejó atrás.

Thank you for the pain
For all the fears you pushed into me
For making me believe i couldn’t love anyone in a proper way
You taught me I was never enough
there was something bad within me
Something dark
You hinted i was a whore
And made me feel guilty for even thinking about sex
You humiliated me
When all i did was love you in my own way
you were my world
And I believed you
I believed truly in my heart that i didn’t deserve to be loved
That all forms of love comes with a great dose of humiliation
But one day I broke away
The screams got louder
Every word aimed to do as much harm as it was possible
But i was already on my way
wasn’t gonna stop running
I ran and thanked you all the way
Cause you broke me so i could become what i always wanted to be: free.

Scribblings - saturday 10/05

Odio lo oculto
lo jamás dicho en voz alta
las historias previas
el cariño disimulado.
las verdades obviadas
los besos contados
los orgasmos callados