My pretty dream

Inside my frustrated and overworked heart, I keep this dream hidden from the eyes of the world. I had it prettily wrapped in pink paper, a red ribbon keeping it all together while the walls of my heart keep resisting under a siege of waves of blades that cut in deep flesh with their dull edges, cracking open wounds that I'm still waiting to transform into ugly scars. But they keep bleeding while I stuff that pretty dream under ruins of ancient remains of a soul that might have lived other lives as well.

I keep no more hope for me. For this world stripped me of all that was pretty and shamed me with my own reflection, forcing me to crawl into the darkness I so hated. And like you peel off a fruit to reach its core in search of its sweetness, I'm peeling my own mind of fears and try to reach the core of it and save whatever is there left to be saved.

And while my walls crack open to reveal my stitched up skeleton, I rush upwards the spiral stairs, scratching my soles in my rush to reach my pretty dream. Now, my sole reason to hang on is this tiny, pink package, to keep its flame burning alive even in the darkest abyss.

My dream is frail. It was born before term and so I know it cannot breathe on its own completely. But as I keep it in my arms and close to my body I somehow hope or maybe wish for it to grow, rip off the pink paper and fly to better skies.

My frail dream sleeps most of the time. 

My dream... will never live on to come true, that I know. And yet, a tiny piece of me looks at it with hopeful eyes while I touch its smoky figure with hungry fingers that seem to have a mind of their own.

My dream, darling dream, when I call out to your murderers to stand for trial, I will be the only one to raise on two and bow down in front of you. And I know you won't see me, for you'll be long gone, but I'll keep remembering the darkness of the guilt.

My dream, darling dream to be one day deeply loved by a man who smiles only at me, showing dimples of kindness and his soul in his eyes, a man like a shelter against all storms... I know you'll die.

I see you

I've been sitting, watching, pondering... I've watched eons pass by me in seconds, their light dying like screens of uncharged laptops or some sort of smartphones. I've seen them all and for a second my heart trembled.

For how long have I kept myself hidden from you? For how long have I hid behind statuses of invisibility? Was it a default condition of the heart you left behind with your always offline being? Or was it just a reaction to the queue I've been planted into?

But Earth stopped its usual rotation and went the other way the day I saw you back online. "Hey," you wrote in unearthly dialect, "I think I broke my machine. It keeps buzzing and thuding deep inside, puffing and snorting like an old hag. What do I do now?"

And my fingers trembled upon the keyboard full of stellar dust of all those stars that set upon its keys. "About what? You're talking gibberish again."

It was an instant reaction to... you, I guess. Because no matter how much time it passed, you're you and I'm still the same fool that cannot fall out of love with your online persona.

"About my heart," came your reply, with the same teasing emoticon at the end. 

Bastard! Fool! Ignorant machine... 'cause you must be one on the other side of the screen! How can you ask me about your heart when mine has been paused for so long that it's hardly starting to smarten up?! You're so self-centered that I... "Try plugging it out," I could not give in. "Maybe it needs to die so you can see beyond the screen in front of you."

How many earthly kilometers did I travel to save your soul and found only ashes and a broken window? How many times did my feet gave in to this burden I still carry around no matter if asleep or awake? I stopped counting after it surpassed the infinite. And just so you know, I was so deep in that I saw no way out. I kept sinking and sinking and there was no branch to pull me out of the mud of my blood and tears, while my heart turned to dust in your room. There was the picture of us on your closet's door and there was that stupid, alien costume I wore on my first intergalactic journey I made for you - all evidence of the real you and me. And yet, you were nowhere to be found. Not there, not here, not under that withered palm-tree you just had to plant in your backyard! Your ice-cream was melting on the corner of a desk with no screen on it...

"I took too long, didn't I?" Your DP seemed to mock me with double smiles of a summer that has long froze under a thick layer of snow.

I wanted to be mean and tell you to just please, fuck off. But my fingers stubbornly refused and remained hanging above the keyboard of my foolish heart. "Way too long. Were they out of stellar dust?"

I guess we're alike... you and I, we're too much of fools not to see the truth in each other. I knew you for too long not to anticipate your disappearance. And you know me too well not to come back... eventually.

"I've been roaming around different stars, but they were all out of dust. And you know what I noticed missing?" Your messaged beeped my attention.

"Surprise me, fuck-head!"

"In all this universe, there's no star that has a you. So I had to come back and reclaim my place at the other end of the line. I see you now."

You're indeed a fuck-head! How many times did I tell you this and now you... you just... I give up, you know?!

"I see you," I replied and finally went to bed after eons of standing on guard.

Locked doors

In an enclosed place

With lots of locked doors.

I alone sit in an open space,

My box of secrets scattered,

Unlocked and unsafe...

And still, those who come in

Intrigued by the locked doors

Sit in front of them for hours,

Pass by me, ignore my open self

For the darkness behind the locks.

They come and come,

Crowds of people come and go

And not a single one looks at me

At how I wear myself bare

Of secrets,

Of scars,

Of feelings of disdain. 

How can a locked door

Be more appealing to you

Than I who shows herself like this?

I could take your unimpressed looks

But this ignorance, as if there is no I

As if my open space is just a loop,

A void hole where sight cannot reach...

And I would tell you everything,

Feelings put in words,

Scars in monochrome lights,

If you'd only look at me,

In my eyes...

If only you'd see me,

For who I am

And take this void inside

And fill it with something else

Than bitterness and disappointment.

If only...

But you're just like any other crowd

Aren't you?

You come and go

Only interested in those locked doors.

But there's only darkness locked away

So that I can be safe with only myself.

My monsters, my demons, my howls,

Should I just release them all?

For your entertainment

I'd do it all...

To a scarred body

Today's gone and history, tomorrow is already here, a present yet to be written. And with all this time running wild around yourself, you see less the inner spark and more the dust that covers it - a sticky substance of plump mud that we terrorize to no extend. 

In the relationship with yourself, there's no in between to express how you feel and you often tend to fall in extremes of love or hate. If it's the first one, then you cover yourself in even more layers of veneer that allow you to show off the spark that peaks in through the cracks of what will prove to be murderous later on. And if it's the second case other types of layers appear to conceal you from head to toes. Layers and layers of fabrics come in folds to provide hideout for insecurities and stained with red paint incapability of accepting that you are who you are and that the exterior is usually bad commercial for the poor soul residing behind the frail walls of this human body.

You fail to see the perfection that you live with 24/7.

You fail at seeing how you're a perfect sum of infinite connections that rarely fail you. You despise the way you share some of your traits with so many other to such an extend that you go for changes that leave you empty and shocked, unable to recognize the reflection of the broken spark of your soul. 

Don't turn your eyes away from the windows that want to reflect you from head to toes when you walk down town. Don't run away from seeing entirely just how perfect you are. From the eyes that see and yet never betray you, but remain mute witnesses to all your dark secrets you buried in the sands of time, to the nostrils that puff in warning when you're mad, signaling those insane enough to approach you that joking time has been paused for now, to the lips that carry out the holy mission of lying with a smile hanging loose in their corners while you pretend you two are just friends.

Then your neck, who keeps two different universes tied together - your reason and your emotions - in still dignity, never easily bowing to bend your self-confidence and pride.

And your shoulders; perfect, round and strong bones, dependable in their almost invisible existence. You don't see them, you don't give them any attention when you carelessly sling your bag on their roundness. And yet they support your responsibilities with the power of Atlas.

Your hands are mere helpful extremities of your messed up body, right? Twins in both life and death, they strive to prove your perfection day by day by simply existing and obeying all of your, sometimes ruthless, commands. Perfect in their synchronization to provide comfort one for another, they seem complete only when you hold hand with your lover. And yet, the nature of their miracle is much simpler than one can imagine: their caresses are softer than silk, their infinite care for each other and together for you should overthrow Heavens. Can you count how many times they've attenuated your falls? How many battle scars are they wearing on your behalf?

Inside that chest you wish was smaller or larger, under your skin and flesh hides the last tint of spark that was able to hide from the judgmental looks you gave and still give yourself. How perfectly the ribs come almost united to protect it from getting further wounds than those purely metaphoric! They leave space only for the lungs who are like old locomotives, puffing in and out an imposed calmness during the most frightful moments in your life. How perfectly the long spine guards it by facing all those mean tongues that roll out only insults meant to break your spirit, your spark!

Your pelvis is treated as the subject of an odd experiment. Its perfection is even more disregarded than that of the shoulders, as you do not see its contribution to more than just pleasure. You do not see how its made so beautifully, so perfect in its fragility and how it helps the unity of two pieces that were made to be together from the very beginning. It doesn't resist much and gently wraps itself into full blooming, giving away its secrets only when you are completely agreeing to it. It never works against you, it never betrays you and if it turns out to be labeled as 'out-of-order' it gently disposes of itself without hurting you.

Then your legs - like wings for birds, they carry your flight no matter the weather. When your hearts screams in pain, they run and run and run till they catch up with the one who left you behind. When you wake up late and fumble around like the sleepy-head that you are, they carry you around no matter their own confused state. The ankles move like springs on impulses you'd never give in to! And so, you kiss in front of the door and run inside, hiding once again in embarrassment.

Why can't you acknowledge all this born perfection?

Why can't you see yourself as more than the visuals provide?

Your body is perfect no matter the shape and size, no matter the scars and paintings on the wrapping, no matter the adjacent contexts! 

Can't you, for only a second per year, acknowledge its contribution to keeping you tightly wrapped together even when you feel like falling apart? Can't you, for just one single second, look beyond what you find so unpleasant about yourself and say "I love you for being solely mine. I love you, body!"?

"And for the times I get angry at you and torment you and starve you and keep you in frozen cold - I'm sorry."