23. April 2014

& I can’t believe I forgot how fucked up things actually were while growing up.

You just wanted someone to love you, so you would give it all every time you had a chance. You neglected me even though you were the one responsible for comforting me.

I’m all grown up now and I making all of the same mistakes I thought I hated you for.

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"Like most sensitive souls, you already know you’re sensitive. You soak up others’ moods and desires like a sponge. You absorb sensation the way a paintbrush grasps each color it touches on a palette. The ethereal beauty of a dandelion, the shift of a season, the climax of a song, or a certain stirring scent can evoke such wonder it’ll behave as your very breath itself- moving through cells as fuel does to fire and wind does to waves."

I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”

A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”

The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.

I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.

I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.

20. April 2014

Take out the trash every Monday morning as I watch people automatically start their cars to go work

Maintain a pretty house to show those around me how much I’ve grown up and how I’ve slowly become independent

Fall in love and for a moment believe I’ve found the person to create children with

Is this it? No, I want to leave a legacy around my circle of friends, family and lovers. I want to discover something new, develop something new, or simply change my little corner of the world.

To do this I need to dedicate my life to something.. I want to be a scholar and invoke others to take on their challenges, be a change or simply live in harmony

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16. April 2014

           La verdad es que no soporto mi padre. Desde chica le tengo un odio. Cada vez que pienso en él me estómago se hace nudo. Creo que es una maldicion. ¿Pero porque me siento asi? Deja te cuento la historia de decepción que ha domado mi vida por los últimos 11 años.

            Todo comenzó cuando mis padres se conocieron en La Paz, B.C.S. Su supone que esta es una ciudad llena de paz por el nombre que no? Pero no, en ese entonces mi madre estaba metida en muchos problemas con sus parientes. Lo único que quería era casarse con mi padre. Unos varios años después de novios y salio embarazada conmigo. Mi abuela en ese entonces no la quería. En su punto de vista para ella el éxito que su hijo algún día iba sostener se iría cuando mi madre surgió embarazada.

            Parece una historia típica no? Pues mi historia es típica porque la vida es simple pero es llena de dulzura. Por ejemplo, como un higo un su plena temporada. Lo demás uno se puede imaginar. Mi madre dio a luz conmigo, me puso el nombre de una gitana por la influencia de una telenovela, mi mamá tuvo mi hermana y pues mi padre se aburrió y conquistó otros amores. Como cada cuento tiene su punto maximo tambien tiene su punto de bajo.

            Eran las 8 de la mañana y yo me acababa de levantar para ir a la escuela. La casa estaba silencia. El silencio a veces no es bienvenido y este venia con una incomodidad. Mi padre estaba afuera de la casa esperando que alguien lo viniera a recoger. No me decia a donde iva. El nomas se iva. “Lluego nos veremos.” Hace 11 años se fue por primera vez a La Paz. Regresaría una vez en su vida y tratará de reconciliarse con la famiglia que dejó. Después se iría otra vez pero esta vez se quedaría para siempre.

             La relación con el no existe. No es porque lo odio, reproche o esté enojada es simplemente porque no hay nada que decir entre nosotros. Lo respeto como un ser humano pero eso es todo por ahorita. Quien mala cama hace, en ella yace. 

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