MY NATURE
I sleep with my hands over my heart. I look dead as I remember how I acted like a vampire against nature. Every person I’ve ever met is cut into pieces like trees. The order is chronological and I wonder when I will see my love die in my nightmares.
I calm a specific thought every time I wake up. I look at my hands, there is no more stuff growing on my skin, just the same amount. Ideas of how to escape scratch my brain as I warm my heart. The illusion doesn’t make the routine any less hellish.
I walk with a meek conviction that is not mine. My nails chew the earth, I feel like I’m creating my grave. I kneel with polished patience before the voids in the earth. The sea of blood beneath my skin loses its visitors, their composure makes them float.
Educated roots settle in and docile puppies demand blankets of earth. I respect this daily repetition, my blood waters hope. My pain makes the invisible eyes cry in silence. And then my eyes scream a memory: there are kilometers to be reborn.
SPECIAL
It’s you. Your memory abhors me. And you remain a symbol of danger. I don’t exist for you. Your ego would see a connection between us only if my dreams needed you. And you would lie with the word special. I still dream. But. The dream monster is no longer you. It’s real.
Is not you. The person I trust least. Or whoever I despise the most. You are not like the dominoes of my past. I don’t need to ask you for truths. You are always where you promise. Physically. Spiritually. There is no frustration, you have always admitted everything. It’s surreal.
It’s you. Who will help me with a dream: turn the world into a less chaotic place. I’m not here to love you. Or forgive. But you were never my monster, so I’ll trust. I smile and thank you without accepting any more deaths. You are already useful, Detective´s assistant with no freedom.
THERE IS A NEXT WHISPER
The person who dances didn’t have much time to practice well. An empathetic mind would realize that the dance is being done during a period of recovery for the body. And that the blank look is the result of insensitive words with infallible advice about perfection.
The person who ‘danced’ doesn’t have much time to fix hell. The heart passes with resentment through the window of the studio where dancing arts are air. The cuts admire whoever created them and then replicate themselves in this body, because that ‘clone’ didn’t murder the person properly earlier.
INTERLACED MEMORY
Perfectionist bodies. Absent minds. Each floor art was a mixture of physical beauty and spiritual ugliness. Feet crushed the pride. A magical wine was created. It was inhuman blood: human blood. The magic smiled as the dragons began to breathe again.
