Posts Tagged ‘hurt’

old ways


i was ready
not only to spill the beans
but to spew out bees,
or spoken bullets:

to all my enemies,
flower wreaths
for their early funerals.

I was angry at the world
(and at myself).
a mean thing I became;
a name
not to be called,
a friend
not to be trusted,
a cornered
feral animal
baring my teeth.

i bit the hand that fed me.
i also spit
on the plate i ate from while
i was at it.

but the words
i spoke
carried no truth
behind them.

(they were just heavy on my heart)

it was an ugly facade,
and just this:
a mask
to protect myself
from more pain.

i pricked
others’ skins
so no spear
could prick me:

built an armor
of thorns
to close guard
my heart,
my weary soul
so no foe
(and no friend, unfortunately)
could come near.


my friends’ tune


if I attune my ears
to your silence,
I can hear
the suffering, and the loneliness
that runs deep
in the dark of your heart.

I can hear the cracks
in the surface
of your strength,
the fibers of your muscles
giving in.

the dreadful wet sound
of sweaty fingers
that slip from the windowsill,
and the dry, heavy thud of a body
hitting the ground.

In my mind, I translate the words
(in their very own secret language)
by your eyes.

they are quiet,
but I hear them.
I do, I do, I do.

if I keep my mouth shut,
close the windows,
squint my eyes,
I can listen to
your pleas-
weak whispers-
that are never “help me”,
but always
“every thing hurts.
every where.”

age: 28


it’s in the darkest hour

(under the cover of routine
of four o’clock in the afternoon,
in the middle of my shift
at the office-
that point when I feel
there is nothing before or after,
just me, crunching numbers,
cold coffee
and spreadsheets-
on a Wednesday)

that I, at random, remember:

you, in a black jacket,
poised like a pale bird
under the glow of the streetlight,
“I come bearing gifts”
and handing me a beer
as I rested my forehead
on your belly
and embraced
your midriff in my arms.

and as fast as it comes
it goes-
the spark of memory.



“magnificent ruin”

I don’t trust me
around you.

reality loses space to dreams
and I blur the lines
between imagination
and what’s concrete.

my head ends up on the floor,
-a gnarly cut-
and, as I bleed,
I end up
forgiving all your sins.

in your eyes,
I travel infinite galaxies,
my thoughts escaping to a planet
beyond Pluto,
and there, without oxygen,
I can’t think straight.

so I fall for your charms,
your lying mouth
over and over again.

please, don’t ever
give in to me



“grave of the fireflies”

does the lie you hide,
the truth you so vehemently deny,
weight on your mind
as it does in mine?


(have you told anyone?
confessed your sins?
really, tell me…
I’m dying to know)



“now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds”

this is her tale of sorrow and disappointment.
this is her story, about how she became what, today, she is. and what she wishes she could present herself to be, but cannot be.
a repeating cautionary tale of how to always be alone, to be repeated in echoes throughout infinity.

it’s short and it’s raw, but she is a five feet five short pack of raw words, resentment and chafed knuckles.

she is what she has to be. not moody, and neither ruthless. just a being.

no songs really appeal to her. apathy has become her as she has become apathy, ruler of gray thoughts, of bland & blank faces and of heads as cloudy as the dark skies above the skyscrapers. misty are the clouds that roam her spirit and something she is: not really sad, indeed, but just chronically hurt.

she is what she was taught to be. a wolf that had to become in order to survive. she is a ghost among the clear lakes and green pines, she roams and roams purposeless as she cannot seem to be able to shake off, to hide the melancholy that is rooted in her very being, threaded through the fabric of the alveoli in her drowned lungs.

she has all these feelings that have made her body their home, even though her own mind is homeless… and lately, it is worse. she seems devoid of light and life in her eyes. she has been haunted by the despair that has populated her mind ever since she had to watch him leave the room,

(watched, like a movie, as he put on his boots slowly, sat by the end of bed, passed his ragged shirt over his head, ran his fingers through the greasy messy bed-hair, pocketed his pack of cigarettes and the motel matches, tossed in slow-motion his jacket over his shoulders
[he forgot his socks by the dresser]
and left, a careless shrug and the distant sound of the car’s engine going further away, in the background, only the cloud of sand rising, rustling in the pavement… really, the soundtrack of her life)

as she pretended to sleep through half-hooded, watery eyes.



my bus took a wrong turn today and once again I believed in fate.

due to this mishap, it took me to a parallel street that I haven’t walked down in years. just below the favela, the large avenue extended before me, busy with rush-hour traffic. I crossed amid the cars on a mission… only to find myself at gate 7, the exit where I religiously accompanied you to, night after night, at 10:30 p.m. so home you’d go for the day.

coincidentally, today a mellow, sickeningly sweet melody streamed into my ears through my headphones: a song I don’t seem to know or remember. a powerful memory it brought up, though, as well as goosebumps to my soul, which was already moved.

however, the tree whose trunk I used to be excited to see and to press your body against as I fervently kissed your mouth was, strangely, unlit. a burnout lamp, a blown fuse, I don’t know. all I could see was the bench underneath the heavy canopy of the trees, where we laughed and cried and many times shared hopes, stories and dreams, was also engulfed in the leaves’ shadows, illuminated only by the moon. a sliver of silver shown through the holes, and that was it. I thought it really fitting for the occasion, for just as the path our relationship followed, that little gate that I used to dread seeing (for it meant that we’d have to part ways at last) was also dark.

a security guard standing nearby yawned in his boredom, in slow-motion, as like the years had not really passed, as everything had not really changed – as life was a still of an unchanged past.

little does he know…

I yawned back, by reflex. then followed my way home.

do you think I’d call just to hear you breathe?


I like to believe that
nothing ever happened between us.
I chalk it off
as a really bad dream.

but then it comes.

it comes back to me.
it comes in dreams,
in flashes,
as I stand in line at the bank,
as I sit alone in front of my computer,
as I read a meaningful quote.
it comes back in images behind my eyelids
and floods me,
makes my toes curl
with momentary pleasures and happiness,

a fleeting, passing chill of joy,

only to, moments later, make my mouth cringe
with the sour taste
of regret
and shame (really!),

anguish, disappointment,

and an unstoppable,
bashful shame.

emotional debt


people take a year
to discard
unwanted, unneeded
that would take
a drop
of confidence
and self-love
to let go.

the Bukowski hour


when I was a child,
I heard that my uncle was an alcoholic.
at first, I didn’t know the meaning
of the word alcoholic
so I asked my mom
and she pointed out,
on the way to school,
the old men on the bar,
chests bare,
swollen hands, red faces,
drinking shots of hard liquor,
8 AM in the morning.

so, that was my definition
of an alcoholic,
formed at the tender age of 11.

little did I know
about alcoholics
someone goes away,
someone is left behind,
a heart is broken.)
I grew older
and despair was
all we knew,
and relief was
at the end of a bottle.

little did I know
that there are all kinds
of alcoholics
among us.

little did I know
that they can function
and that they live
and breathe
(seemingly normal)
and that not all of them
are at the bar.

little did I know
that you can be
but also
a young-person-with-no-hopes-or-dreams alcoholic,
a poser-grad-student-that-wants-to-be-a-poet alcoholic,
a little-pick-me-up-in-the-morning alcoholic,
a can’t-deal-properly-with-trauma-and-won’t-find-help alcoholic,
a whiskey-in-the-coffee-before-work alcoholic,
a won’t-go-there-if-there-isn’t-booze alcoholic,
a ruining-family-reunions alcoholic,
a burns-all-bridges alcoholic,
a takes-no-prisoners alcoholic.

little did I know.
little do I know.