Pride dies for love to survive

They say if you give your body to someone
who doesn’t love you, thorns start to grow in your lungs
reaching more and more through the airways,
slowly choking every available part of you.

If I had known,
I wouldn’t wash the sheets for you
which makes my lust look like
an error that can be modified,
now the covers are torn,
the ecstasy and dubious sewn on them.
They smell of sin.
They smell of remorse,
but the sound of your scream is heard inside me.

Are you feeling well, love?
Do you feel strong
as you scratch your nails along the edges of the bed
not letting me go?
Thin parts of the brain
they open the way to the subconscious,
where I lean and put my hand between
emptiness and your pulse.
And I think I could own you too,
but you didn’t know, did you?

Isn’t that ironic?
We tend to be attracted to people
that reflect our problems,
so who can then blame me for making the script
with an angel whose wounds of self-harm itch
and the devil who feeds on someone else’s pain with a taste of his own?
Folded under the kitchen table,
piercing each other’s hearts,
completely unaware that the world continued to exist without them.
And that it will continue to turn in its ambiguity.

You, disappointed, as I am,
as I immerse my delusion in you,
and I pull the roots you planted inside me,
to prevent the growing plague of consciousness,
breathlessness that sounds like an echo:
I’m everything you can’t digest.”

So call me a joke lost in translation,
anxiety for one night and wasting time.
Say I didn’t even have lungs for screaming
as you looked at me broken, on the floor.
I didn’t know that my pride had to die
that your love may live.

Now your waiting room is full again,
when you decided it was enough to love me.

Wallpapers drawn with my fingerprints,
the stains that were my touches.
That’s where you hooked their lifeless bodies,
a collection of easy-to-use ones,
lovers of the oldest craft – love.
Steel doors are moist from their involuntary moans,
ideas that come to mind for the abandoned and
absurd forms and ideas
about the perfect girl that won’t have just one night.

Now, your hands are wide open to obtain salvation.
The rib cage flexes like a sharp jaw
when it’s ready to bite what it craves.
Intestines turned into useless hands,
waving up and down,
as if they were making fun of the art of flying.

Think they won’t kill you one day?
A halo around the chest will not protect you
when my mind, with its drowning hands
holds onto everyone and anyone
who passes over it.
You see, you didn’t know you became mine
the moment you thought
the only thing that had to die was my pride
for your perverted love to breathe.
I died in you never to stop hurting you.

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