The juiciest for the end

Doesn’t everyone love to hear juicy news?
Well, I have finally something to share.
It actually involves you,
among all the other benefits
to be infinite.
And no doubt you will feel
proudly when you find out.

Congratulations are in order.
I mean, you did it, though.
You targeted precisely with your bow and arrow,
made from carefully chosen
material to create pride.

I wonder what you’ve been using.
A cocktail of ego and intelligence?
Maybe a little bit of awe
towards nothing except for
the time you knew
that it will step over your attempts
to capture it in your palms.
Triviality is now ahead of me.

Let’s return to the main thing,
you have achieved the goal.
To break me,
the place you used to call home.
Where you left your shame,
and found acceptance.

But you loved moments the most.
You turned them into stories.
Too gloomy for my taste,
but again, each was too real
for denial.

You see, those
nine hundred hours
of regret for those moments
who just walked past you
weren’t a lie.
And we are no longer a story,
we are here and now, infinite.
The only difference is that we
became infinitely temporary.

You wanted to understand who I was.
You denied that you have pride,
but at the crossroads of our prejudices,
you got stiff.
So complete, so uneven your line was.

My favorite shirt, destroyed,
by sorrow, tears, nails.
You didn’t know how else
to push me away,
but you had your bow and arrow.
In any case, when words fail.

Forgive me, I got lost for a moment.
This isn’t about me.
It’s about how much
the depth doesn’t impress you,
you want something
rough and firm
to feel like
you can control the land.

Triumph achieved.
The victory and head lifted
so high to reach
the space between the tunnel wall
and the roof of the car on which
you liked to stand
with arms raised
in the air
listening to your favorite song,
so loud.

My womb is full of irregularities
and the injustice that I had to
to suffer, as if I hadn’t seen
what’s going on from the moment
I fell for your spoiled
mascara in the rain
once upon a time in the distant December.
Now it seems that that month
doesn’t exist, it’s deceptive.

I’ve never been faithful to myself,
I’m just a notion of rejecting my own lies.
You belong to them, but you probably already know that.
So what are you then?

Pull a chair.
We’ll go back to the beginning.
Lost in metamorphosis,
a fragment of a man or a shadow
in a bar at the other end of the city,
I’ve heard how you told me:
Women are like alcohol,
they will stay in your throat
until they burn it,
it will be bitter, but it’s sweet,
and I’m just one type of bourbon…

Your voice has permeated decades of bad decisions;
My eyes swam like
a confused fish in a dirty pot.
You watched me drink you with them,
sip by sip.
And then you ordered yourself a scotch.

Yes, I’ll give you something bitter.
It turned out that mine
cannot be compared with yours.
I couldn’t swallow that bite.

I’ll ask you something now.
After your theatrical murdering
everything inside me,
give me something that will stain you.

Give me the silence,
to sew it over my lips,
to remember your name.

Give blindness to my eyes,
when they see the color of yours
somewhere where you aren’t,
that they don’t notice it,
as well as a certain measure of antiseptics
for constantly stabbing myself,
to wake me up when I think
that this was love.

I’m still wondering about my own
stubborn persistence
to keep coming back,
and I find new ways to try acid
of brand-new truths within the lies.

I know you think I’m beneath you,
you mentioned that uncertainty
on several occasions
when you crumpled those stories
created of moments.

But while you think that this world
can’t run without you,
you didn’t notice that
I was running away from you.
The juiciest for the end.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may also like these