Recopilación de textos /favoritos/ que escribí con diecinueve.

#1
de cosas que escribí sobre la persona que amo.


i feel carelessly forgotten and i dont know why when it might be mostly the other way around— and im so sorry. maybe its this fever or the whispers during lit class maybe its the smell of your collar and the way i remember goodbye kisses and i dont want them ever again but this crazy fever made it feel as if you were shoving them down my throat with no strings ever attached. maybe its not either the fever or the smell of your try hard teenage years, maybe it’s just me needing some kind of reassurence just as any every other day, but not his, not fresh deodrant smelling reassurence that im pretty because what is pretty, not flirty fetish talk on the corner of the room or chuckles and hugs so meaningless. maybe i just need a little more, a little meaning, and i miss it, and i feel so carelessly forgotten because of my own fault of not being able to reach out for it.






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I didn’t know it would be like this, at six am, getting out of bed and not have your sleepy eyes wish me a nice day. I didn’t know how long a three block walk would be at seven past thirty in the morning thinking about you still curled up in bed or maybe passed out somewhere, alone. I didn’t know I would want to eat alone so I could phone you on a parking lot to check out on you and ask if you’ve had breakfast yet, and your voice made my spirit light and my heart would take up most of the space on a building, and still you wouldn’t be able to catch it. I didn’t sign up for sick days, I stayed in bed for two days and you had gone out with friends and I waited for Sunday afternoon for you to be back but you’re not, you’re not here not even at three am when I woke up in the middle of the night crying because my stomach hurt and my brain hurt and my bed’s too big and my room’s too big and my chest is shrinking and—


Your fingertips aren’t here to read me like Braille, you’re not here to tell me about all the dogs you saw today and the songs you sang along to and what you had for dinner. Your eyes aren’t looking at me like I am sunrise anymore and the freckles on your neck and along your back are no longer constellations in my hands.


I’ve grown up, though, I have. I’m all for healthy relationships and loving myself because I’ve had my heart broken before, you know, and I’m not about letting my happiness on other people’s hands because they’ll drop it, that’s what people do, they’ll drop it every time.


I know you didn’t plan for this to go this far, I don’t think you planned ahead, I know, because I didn’t either it just kind of happened and we just went with it and now I’m trying to keep going with it. You know at sixteen when I thought I was so mature I said I wasn’t going to let anyone in, and so I didn’t. I didn’t plan for today to rain, and maybe you didn’t plan to give me seeds. I know I didn’t plan for you to grow like leaves sprouting out from my limbs.


I didn’t plan for you to be five thousand miles away from here, I wasn’t looking for love. It just happened.






_________________






en la vida he estado segura de pocas cosas, estoy segura de que puedo mentir, pero ni a ti ni a mí puedo, a nadie alguna vez amé segura.


amé como se ama lo que es propio, el departamento del tercer piso, tu aroma a cigarro, el olor de tu cuello, el pelo mojado que se pega en tu cara cuando aprietas mi cintura, amé como creí en cada palabra, amé cuando la luz se apagó y se me ataron las manos, cuando literalmente se me ataron las manos en esa camilla todavía amaba, amé cuerda, amé enferma, amé su risa, amé su espalda.


amé como se ama una fotografía, de lejos, de mentira, amé verlo llegar y amé cuando se fue, lo amé solo por un día, por un rato, lo amé como mala poesía de la que me he ido olvidando. amé las líneas de su cara, amé el calor de sus manos.


amé a veces, amé abrazos, amé besos escurridizos y a escondidas, amé mis manos cuando las sostenía alguien más, amé pero jamás correcto, amé a medias.


y de todas las historias de amor, no eres constante, menos real e imposiblemente seguro; amor en línea recta, amor a millas de distancia, amor imprudente, amor que comprende el dolor y no acepta el sano juicio. de todas las historias eres la única que quiero seguir contando.




#2
de cosas que escribí sobre amor propio.


Look out for yourself.
Keep yourself warm, do not burn yourself. Cut your nails, paint them, do not scratch yourself. Caress your hair, do not pull it. Sooth yourself, do not attack yourself. Embrace yourself. Forgive yourself.
Tell yourself it is enough, you can not hide, you can not stop the internet from happening, do not follow those blogs, do not go on their profiles, you’ve already looked through all of their instagram pictures too many times, stop watching that show, turn that music off. You can’t stop people from living, you can not hate people because they have, because of what they are, because of what you are. Accept yourself, come to terms, come to peace.
Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt yourself. Breath in, breath out, take a step back, do not grab that razor throw your lighter on the floor, it is been too long and you’ve come so far, it is okay to trip please do not set yourself on fire, do not let anyone set you on fire.
Drink water, do not turn the lights off, breath, comfort yourself, I understand why you thought those awful things I understand and I forgive you.






#3
de otras cosas.


(Eventualmente) Paso mucho tiempo pensando en mi color favorito, en las frases que quiero usar, en las cosas en las que quiero creer, en mi palabra favorita, y hasta ahora nunca pensé que llegaría el día en que dejaría de creer en tus posibilidades infinitas y tu positivo entusiasmo que me daba tiempo; siempre necesito tiempo, tiempo para construir puentes entre las ideas, para levantar murallas para evitar que la gente te arrebate, te tome entre sus manos y te deje caer, te dejen olvidada en ignorancia y en costados negativos que no me interesan, destrozan tus posibilidades, queman nuestros puentes, y sin quererlo el hilo de una voz que te nombra tambaleando comienza el fuego. Va a llegar, dice, "eventualmente". Te deja caer con desprecio, porque derrumba las paredes, porque sabe que el peor momento para apuñalarme con tal traición es de noche porque las palabras se me agotan, y lo quiero y lo extraño aun cuando lleva desdén en la frustración a la que sabe su boca, porque arde el nido en el que le había hecho un hogar.
Así fácilmente dejé de creer en positivo, en puentes y en tiempo y lo que significabas para mí, y no sé cómo borrarte de mi vocabulario ahora, porque por tantos años fuiste una fiel compañera, mi palabra favorita, pero te ensuciaron y arrebataron tu encanto como si a nadie le importara.