Mañanas etéreas

Eso. Todo era claro cuando estaba sola. 
Como una mañana silenciosa de invierno. 
La media luz fría, la brisa gélida, el silencio que indica que no hay siquiera un solo ser vivo listo para enfrentar ese hielo. Cuando el mundo todavía no está despierto, pero ella sí. Ella se regocija en su nariz enrojecida y sus manos congeladas. Respira el silencio, aprecia el paisaje, sonríe en la media-luz etérea de esas mañanas. 
Así se siente estar sola. Mientras que amar, amar es como el sol de una tarde de verano. Encantador, cálido, y rebozante de energía. Pero también te ciega, te agobia, y te quema la piel. 
Y más seguido que no, terminás necesitando escapar para ponerte a refugio de la sombra. 

El amor no es fuerte, no es resistente. El amor es frágil y no soporta mucho más que un par de golpes. El amor no es a prueba de nada. 
Nada te queda asegurado solo por tener amor. Ni siquiera la felicidad. Ni siquiera la reciprocidad. 
Más así, una parte de ella se negaba a creer que el amor era uno solo. La vida no se termina a los veintidós años. Su capacidad de amar tampoco.
Entonces llegó él. 
La invitaba. Vení con mis amigos, vení con mi familia. 
Vení a mi casa, vení de viaje. 
Vení, vení, vení. 
Vení conmigo, no tenemos que hacer H si querés hacer B. 
Vení conmigo, solo vení. 
Ella continuamente decía no.
Pero a veces, cuando estaba de buen humor, cuando la propuesta le sonaba como una mañana de invierno, decía sí. 
Así se acostaron mucho. Se acostaron en camas, en parques, y en playas. Gimieron, hablaron, estuvieron en silencio. Ella incluso ronroneó una que otra vez.
No sentía que les hiciera falta nada más. 
Nada más, aunque él quería más. Él quería el sol. 
Ella estaba a gusto con un invierno compartido. 
Pero él no se rendía de seguir invitándola a su tarde de verano. 
A ella le parecía demasiado cálido, se asfixiaba rápido, se asfixiaba fácil, le daban golpes de calor. Quería correr a la sombra.
Él nunca se cansó de intentarlo. 
Y a veces, de golpe, sí. 
Y entonces ella volvía silenciosa a su mañana de invierno, pensando que el sol era agradable, pero que no era lo que quería. 
Pero volvía. Volvían a hablarlo, se entendían. A los dos les gustaba el frío, sólo que él lo prefería lejos de su corazón. 
Le hacía doler el pecho, decía. A ella también. 
Pero el sol se lo prendía fuego. 
Aún así, ella lo quería. Con él comprobó que sí había distintas formas de amar, y eran realmente distintas. Podías desear sin amar. Podías embriagarte tanto de deseo que no notarías el cariño escurrirse entre los pliegues de tu piel (o eran los de la de él?) hasta que ya lo tenías encima. Podías querer sin expectativas. Ella no las tenía de él. 
A veces pausaba cuando lo miraba. No entendía realmente qué era lo que la alejaba de él.
Tenía los ojos tan claros como la mirada. El cabello un poco más oscuro, y los hombros llenos de pecas. 
Tenía una sonrisa sincera y gestos cálidos. Tenía las manos fuertes y los dedos cortos, ligeros como plumas. Su voz variaba, aunque siempre sonaba dulce si era el nombre de ella el que salía de sus labios.
Creía que en cualquier otro momento de su vida, él le habría aflojado todas las defensas. 
O quizás, 
no. 

The drought was the very worst. When the flowers that we'd grown together, died of thirst.
It was months and months of back and forth, you're still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can't wear anymore.

There was nothing left to do. 

When the butterflies turned to dust, they covered my whole room.
So I punched a hole in the roof, let the flood carry away all my pictures of you.

The water filled my lungs, I screamed so loud, but no one heard a thing.

Ten months sober, I must admit, just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it.
Ten months older, I won't give in, now that I'm clean, I'm never gonna risk it.

The drought was the very worst,
When the flowers that we'd grown together died of thirst.

Rain came pouring down when I was drowning, that's when I could finally breathe.
And by morning, gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean.

Finally clean, 

Think I'm finally clean, 
Think I'm finally clean.

You cannot break a mangled thing

One. Your father speaks of his youth with revelry; spills his life across the table like an overturned drink covering everything. Your mother, doesn’t speak. Any stories of her premarital life come from your father’s mouth. He speaks of how he tamed her, saved her from a life of reckless abandon; clipped her wings to keep her from flying too close to the sun, but Icarus would’ve just as soon drowned than burned, and the silence in your mother’s mouth is a salt water darkness. She does not speak up to defend herself.

Even now, years after their divorce your father’s voice can fill a room and your mother still makes space for it. When your mother teaches you not to be swallowed she is already sitting in the belly of the beast she once loved. You wonder if she has grown to love the darkness like she once loved the man.

Two. The day you learn the importance of emergency exits is the day your heartbeat stops sounding familiar. It is a stuttering tongue, a trembling hand. Your heart beats like closing doors, beats like your father’s fading footsteps, beats like every plea you will learn how to swallow; don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t. Your father teaches you how to be the first one to walk away, leave before they realize you are not worth staying for.

Three. When your mother tells you not to be afraid of falling in love, you do not miss the way her hands shake, you wonder if they miss the handcuff weight of the ring that used to rest on that finger, wonder if you too will fall in love with a padlock-man. You begin to be wary of boys with birdcaged hands; they have mouths like oceans, and your mother is still wringing sea water from her bones.

Four. You master the art of slipping away by starting small. Fix your body clock so you always wake up first, plot escape route like past time, force your heart to beat; just go, just go, just… Practice on the ones you love most, that way nothing can hurt you. 
You cannot break a mangled thing and you don’t know the last time your heart sounded like a heart. 

Five. He tells you you eat like a bird. You tell him your mother taught you well. He laughs and reaches for your hand, you smile and begin to slip through the cage of his fingers.

Six. When boys begin searching for hospital-room-hearts you warn them yours is a broken glass bottle. They don’t care, or they don’t hear you. They cut themselves on sharp tongues, trying to make finger paintings with the blood on their hands -make it sound so beautiful you almost believe them.

Almost.

Soon you know they will wake up with scars and blame you, so you leave them a bandage in the dark and don’t look back. Leave, before they realize you are not worth scarring for.

Seven. You see every outstretched hand as a palm preparing to drown you, so you sink further underwater and ignore the burning in your chest. Run your fingers over every name that has left your mouth for the last time and tell your self you have done the right thing.

The Heartbreaker Poem by Bianca Phipps

Push.

She said "I don't know if I've ever been good enough. I'm a little bit rusty, and I think that my head is caving in.
And I don't know if I've ever been really loved, by a hand that's touched me;
well I feel like something's gonna give, and I'm a little bit angry..."

She said "I don't know why you ever would lie to me, like I'm a little untrusting, when I think that the truth is gonna hurt ya...
And I don't know why you couldn't just stay with me, you couldn't stand to be near me; when my face don't seem to want to shine,
'cause it's a little bit dirty, well...

Don't just stand there, say nice things to me...
'Cause I've been cheated, I've been wronged,
and you, you don't know me, oh and I can't change. No I won't do anything at all."

All that I'm after is a life full of laughter... 

As long as I'm laughing with you.                                      

The first time I saw her...

The first time I saw her...
Everything in my head went quiet.
All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just dissapeared.
When you have Obsesive Compulsive Disorder, you don't really get quiet moments!
Even in bed, I'm thinking;
Did I lock the door? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the door? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
When I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips, or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or fucking talking to her...
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times or if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but, she’d just leave cause I was just making her late for work...
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking...
When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but...
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars.
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel.
How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.
How she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out…
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.

Neil Hilborn - OCD

I like my body when it is with your

I like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
I like your body.  I like what it does,
i like its hows.  I like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm- smoothness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, I like kissing this and that of you,
I like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric furr, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly I like the thrill

of under me you so quite new.
                                                           E.E. Cummings

When you wish for something to happen...

Normalmente cuando deseas demasiado algo durante mucho tiempo, al momento de obtenerlo sucede una de dos cosas: 
O no es nada como te lo esperabas o es mucho más de lo que te imaginabas. De cualquier manera todo se termina yendo a la mierda, dejándote con una sensación de "¿Pero qué carajos acaba de pasar?"

And here we go again.

"-Suddenly there are days where I can't stop worrying, fidgeting, awkward, in place.
>>And then, there're those other days, where I just lay helplessly in his arms, dozed off, like his eyes contain tranquillizer, and the way he looks at me and holds me close make me feel truly loved... And his heartbeat lulls me to sleep and everything is fine... Everything's fine...
'Till he's gone.
And there we go again."

If the world were really, actually ending tomorrow, I'd like your voice sweetly, tenderly humming in my ear as you held me close, to be the last melody I heard before it all went down...

Ese momento en el que hablas de algo que solía matarte por dentro, pero ahora no es más que un recuerdo desagradable. Y mientras las palabras salen de tu boca vos mismo te escuchás y pensás "Que horrible que suena, ahora que lo digo en voz alta", cuando al vivirlo no parecía más que una mala racha. Y sonreís, al hablar de esa deprimente situación que viviste, sonreís, porque ya no te sentís así. Y un sentimiento inunda tu pecho y respirás hondo, las lágrimas asoman a tus ojos y puede que alguna ruede por tu mejilla, tensa por la manera en que tu boca se abre en la sonrisa más grande que jamás mostraste al mundo. Te sentís vivo. Te sentís libre. Encontraste la felicidad. Y ahora te das cuenta que no era tan inalcanzable cómo parecía.

When you really love someone, you tell them that your only wish is for them to be happy.
When in reality, you sit there silently crossing your fingers, your only wish being for you to still be a part of their happiness.