Shame

I grew so used to loving roses

that now the shimmer of thorns seems enticing.

I go out in the storm, hoping

thunder strikes me.

But only rain touches me. Falls on me,

soaking me in shame.

I am ashamed, for I long for thorns

to prick me, for the darkness 

to grip me. For the train

to hit me.

Deseo terrenal XXVIII

Dime, ¿qué sucede cuando

desde el cielo despejado salta
el relámpago?
¿Qué sucede cuando la grieta de su impacto
clama a la lluvia, pero el cielo
se ha vaciado?
Las estrellas nos están mirando
tan callado
y bajo techo yo les conjuré tanto
desdén, tanto.

La Luna en el espejo
solo va transitando,
acostados sobre el pasto
les rogamos tanto
a los astros.

Pero yo tampoco puedo
prometer la lluvia, solo soy
un ser humano.
Y cada estrella es solo gas
expirando.

¿Con qué derecho le reclamo yo al cielo
que me entregue mis deseos en mano? Oh, mas
¿con qué derecho los astros me señalan
el sendero iluminando?
Salgo a caminar solo cuando
las nubes se han arrebujado,
sujetando
mi candil siempre en alto.

God

It humbles me to know that, as overcome as I am by my love, it is not special. All the stars above have seen it millions of times before, it is not new. Each tree and each stone I walk by recognize me as a lover, thinking: there is yet another. So many creatures have carried this very torch before, and right now, even - I have so many siblings in love. Every poem I write has been written before. Everything I dare to dream has been conjured up by the captive mind of another sleeping beau. We are millions - we who know of rapture without God. Except that is not true: we do know God. God is love itself. It has already taken our souls. For eternity, I presume - I really do not know. Maybe the option to have my soul back is there, but I would not choose it. I do not want it to return.

There is no coming back from knowing God. There is no other faith that could be taught to me that I would be able to hold. All who claim to be gods are but spirits that wander the world, looking to not be forgotten. They are no more than me. They are no less alone.

I am godlike, for I carry God ablaze in me, eternally, like a star. It sparked inside me, inadvertently, lightning struck. Its embers were already glowing within when I was born, and after I dispose of this body, they will continue to burn. It transcends my humanity, my mortality - every little cell that conforms me, is ruled by it. It is above me, it is before me - I come after. I am a prideful individual, self-absorbed, and yet, I like it this way. Love can have my ego and throw it into the ocean for all I care. Love can let my ego drown. I am a willing slave to love. It was never an accident: I chose it, wholehearted. I chose to love, this much, this many, this long, this deep and hard and raw. Love is the rope climbed up by my soul from Hell to Heaven. Love is what unifies all the lives I ever had. Love defined me, and the world around. It created us all. From love we all spawn and to love we shall return.

Hot

All my life I longed to be hot. It took me

so many years. So many years.

I had to go through my depression first. I lost

so many kilos. So many kilos. 

Not that fat girls aren't hot. They're hot as fuck. But I thought

that me, in particular, could not.

I spent so many euros. So many euros

buying myself pretty clothes. I learned to favour

every curve, I made them swift

to turn in a quiet car. I learned to tame 

the wilderness in my body, even though 

I loved her so. I plucked so many hairs, so many

hours out the clock just to be

hot.

It took me so long to be the hot girl. The girl you dream of.

The girl you timidly, secretly cum for, in the dead silence

then look awkward in the eye in the loud.

I finally made it. I was so intimidatingly gorgeous, the kind of girl

that makes your jaw drop.

Only then I realized that I didn't want that job.

Letting go of the hot girl in the mirror, the girl

to whom I would submit my soul if she didn't already

have it inside her skull - it hurt.

I had to tell her myself, that she had to go. I had to watch.

Sometimes, it's your birthday and you recieve a wonderful gift. Everybody is so excited for you to open it, because

it has so much worth. They spent so much money on it, so much work.

But it's not what you wanted.

You can fully see its value. You can tell how precious the materials are,

how much meaning has been poured inside. It's beautiful, breathtakingly so. It's not that you don't find it beautiful - you really do. It's just...

that it's not for you. You wish someone else had it.

You're too embarrassed to decline this gift, so you keep it for years, you show it off, you know it's something anyone would be proud of. You almost believe you are from how hard you try to keep the farce. But deep inside you know that it doesn't belong in your home.

Every time you look at it, it's a rose that pricks

you with venomous thorns.

They never gave you a receipt. You can't return this gift.

It has your name engraved on it, so you can't sell it nor

give it to someone beloved.

You want to get rid of it, once and for all.

You can only break it. Throw it onto the floor.

And when you do, it hurts. Because it was incalculably precious, unique, something that never will repeat

in the history of this world, made with so much hope.

It's impossible to not feel like a bastard, like the worst

even if you do it out of love. You need to release your trapped soul

from the mirror, you smash it into pieces and don't even think of the many years of bad luck to come.

So many years.

To become hot. Just hot. 

Like I always wanted.

Silencio IV

Estoy esperando a recibir el permiso.

Son papeles importantes.

Me levanto temprano, pierdo el sueño

porque necesito firmarlos

personalmente.

Estoy esperando

que me lleguen documentos.

Todo el día pendiente.

¿Y si

me olvidé de

fotocopiar algo?

¿Y si

se extraviaron

permanentemente?

Glass II

Lay yourself under the sharp glass,
the black glass that slits you open
into bloom, oh
doom! Give your skin to the spike
so clear, the blade so feared
that gushes out maroon.
I am but a broken vase;
I give you chase, I come
after the Moon.

But

I do like to suffer

I do like the pain

I take it in - blank, plain

not yet painted

not yet named

Every animal around me flees

from the roar of the woods

But I freeze

such cold is the grip the night has

on my wrist, tightening my skin 

I hear them calling for me, but I 

never fear for my life

My pain comes tender, like the spring

budding through the branches, she contains

so many lives within that burst

right on stage, spill;

I pull the curtains down, I don't let you see

I hold my gasp

in

I do like the sting

of the wasp, I do like the buzz

of the city within

Every animal around me flees

from the roar of the train

But I stand still

Curiosity comes in full speed, and I

take the hit

I never fear for my life

Sweatsong

I like to pretend that I know

how it is.

That not everybody

is meant to be.

But still I wish

I transform

into the man of your dreams,

into the very rose that pours

its blood in your sleep.

I like to pretend that I know

that it's not a thing

of adults to be

lovesick.

It's not a thing

of adults to be

me.

My pillow is

so heavy with secrets,

so soaked the shirt

I lay with.

I like to pretend they're the tidiest,

driest, most immaculate bedclothes

you have ever seen.

You never see my face before

I rinse.

Dusk Song IV

There is so little time.

There is so little time before

she arrives.

So little

time before she finds

us naked, in her own bed.

There is so little time.

Recess only lasts for

half an hour.

Any minute now, the bell

will chime us back

to class.

So little,

so little time before

it's dark.

Deseo terrenal XXVII

(07/2017)

Siempre me han enseñado que no debe ser, que no debe ser.

Que lo tengo que contener, que lo tengo que esconder, que no puede ser.

Que no me debo acercar, lejos me he de mantener.

Como si me tuviera que avergonzar. Callade he de permanecer.

Yo quisiera mostrar lo que guardo. Pero pareciera que nadie lo quiere conocer. ¿Tan espantoso puede ser?

Rezo por alguien que no quisiese echar a correr. Que abriese el vado ante mí; que me dejase pasar y acercarme hasta sí. Que desatase mis contenciones por mí y me dejase, por una vez, 

desobedecer.

Hungriest Heart

I have an aching heart

I have the hungriest heart

A bottomless pit of a heart

that sucks in everything like a black hole

A heart open agape

A door unhinged from its frame

A heart that's never full

It keeps asking for more

I have the hungriest heart

It has the sweetest tooth

A swallowing beast of a heart

that leaves no plate, no bottle full

Life is a feast and my heart

has the deepest mouth, has the biggest spoon

I have an aching heart

A masochist slave of a heart

It never gets enough from you

It is an ample corridor and

multitudes are running through

A lustful fiend of a heart

always under New Moon

A waterwhirl heart engulfing

everything that falls into the pool

A bottomless pit of a heart

A void to birth the world into

Deseo terrenal XXVI

(2018)

 

Nunca nadie se me lleve,

nunca de mi tierra me separe

nadie.

Nunca a mí se me arrebate

de entre los rosales.

Moonshine IV

I saw the longing in your eyes, I saw

the thirst, the hunger and they

gripped me, firmly, told me

not to go.

So I didn't go.

The table is already

set for you.

The wine glass is brim

with my blood.

The moon is waxing.

Come have your meal.

Glass

I want to be as clear as glass

A fish bowl you can hold

in your hands

I want to be able to tumble

and crash

onto the ground, if so I please

 

I want you to see what's inside

me, every tear drop, every

dried flower, every particle of dust

I want to be emptied, then filled

I want to be able to tumble

and crash

onto the ground, if so I please

Awake II

I have to wait.

 

I have to wait until

you're sound asleep.

 

To open the blackbox of my secrets

so slick

the night dripping its wax

from a wick unlit

onto me.

Compose to the rythm

so still

of your dream.

Close my eyes

and

open my ears.

The heat is

rising

so slick

my mouth covered

in endless sheets.

I have to wait.

I have to wait until

we're all sound asleep.

Deseo terrenal XXV

(marzo 2021)

 

Whenever I look at myself

I'm running away

from her.

All the crooked decisions

she makes to be seen,

apparent.

Siempre estoy deseando huír. ¿De qué? 

¿Por qué? No lo sé. Es como si

dentro de mí hubiese un animalito 

que quiere echar a correr.

Todo en el mundo es temido, temible

para él.

Cada vez que se me toma de la mano

se siente como cuerdas apretando

en mi piel.

Pensé que el animal se moriría 

al hacerme mayor, a fuerza de no

hacerle más caso. Lo quise

abandonar como a un niño

indeseado, como si no tuviera

los recursos para cuidarlo.

Pero sigue vivo.

Cual si lo hubiera estado

alimentando yo misma

con los ojos cerrados.

Él urgando

en mi basura cuando yo

no estaba mirando.

Y es precisamente lo que yo

di por desechos, lo que lo ha

nutrido.

¿Cómo decirle que se vaya?

Que deje de tirar de mí,

acuciando.

¿Adónde vamos?

¿Adónde vamos ... ?

Por sobre la cabeza del monte está

oteando, tan alto

que el cielo casi nos doblega la nuca

como un techo alcanzado.

The ghost has no home

The ghost has no home.

They're staying at yours

for a night or two.

They sit at your table, they close 

the forgotten doors.

They're waving goodbye

from the front gate,

they're hopping a car

or a plane.

They're going to the pit

of the ocean. They're going to space.

They have no ground

to be bound to, they have no grave.

The ghost has no home

to return to.

They're staying at yours

for today.

They're taking a peek

in your drawers, they're

turning the radios awake.

They're saying goodnight

from the cupboard, they shrink

to the size of a fly.

They're going to Mars

and the dog stars.

They lay at the floor

of the lake.

The ghost has no home

to return to.

The ghost has no grave.

Moonshine III

Isn't it strange how the sky doesn't know 

how much he is beloved by all those 

who lay under?

But the moon, I'm certain

that she knows.

She watches me, knowingly, until I

feel ashamed.

She watches me invasive

on my bed. She stares while I'm

naked, intently, looking directly 

into my face.

Isn't it strange how she knows

without having a concept of language

or names?

I stare back

at her.

Deseo terrenal XXIV

¿Me llevarías contigo?

Tan pronto te toque, me arrastraría

la corriente consigo, dime

si tendrías la amabilidad de tomarme

de las manos, de invitarme a yacer esta noche

contigo, que se me suelte el pelo

y que naden conmigo, a mi alrededor todos los anfibios 

y pescaditos. Dime, ¿tú crees

que las olas me querrían

consigo? ¿Me tomaría el mar

para sí? ¿Me llevarías tú a verle

contigo?

Me arrebatarías de la tierra,

desvastando mis pies, ahogarías

mis raíces atrayendo a los hongos y bichitos

para que me corrompan poquito

a poquito. Dime,

si crees que el océano

me adoptaría como hijo, dime

si yo podría transformarme en algo

distinto.

Muerte II / Deseo terrenal XXIII

Cuando tenía 13 años, me leí Los hijos del vidriero. La profe de Lengua nos lo había mandado como lectura obligatoria. "Lectura obligatoria" es un concepto espantoso y contraproducente donde los haya, así que yo pasé página tras página de aquel libro sintiendo en mis mismos huesos el arrastre pesumbroso de las horas. Sin embargo, me encontré cautivade por uno de los primeros conceptos presentados en el taller del artesano del cristal. 

Qué hermoso es el sonido producido por las piezas al caerse al suelo y quebrarse. Qué increíblemente frágiles son las cosas más bellas, en las que hemos insuflado tanto de nuestro propio aire. Klas, el pequeño hijo del vidriero, se regocijaba con el campaneo de cada recipiente en el instante de su muerte en mil pedazos, para inmediatamente comprobar con horror la realidad. Aquello que se creó y que se amó, se fue. Acaba de irse, ahora mismo, delante tuya. Y para siempre. 

Desapareció, terminantemente. Solo quedan trocitos con los que no se puede hacer nada. Es irrecuperable. Solo nos queda barrerlos, sintiendo en el pecho el pinchazo del luto como si de algún modo imperceptible los hubiéramos respirado y nuestra sangre los hubiera llevado directos en contraataque a nuestro corazón.

Como se puede ver, nunca jamás me olvidé de lo que Maria Gripe me dijo.

Desde entonces, rompí muchos cristales. Pensé en sus palabras todas y cada una de esas veces. La mayoría se me resbalaron de las manos sin querer; otros, los lancé deliberadamente al suelo. Fue doloroso, aterrador, liberador y placentero, cada vez. Recibí ese placer con culpa. Recibí esa muerte con anhelo. Y todos esos sentimientos, al final del día desaparecieron, dejaron de existir tal como lo hicieron cada uno de esos objetos. O quizás, solo se transformaron en otra cosa, ¿sería más correcto pensar eso? Quizás cada copa y cada botella, sencillamente regresaron a la arena de la que surgieron una noche como los cisnes en el lago, diluídos de nuevo al término del plenilunio.

Si tan solo eso fuera enteramente cierto. Muchas veces el cristal fue molido en polvo resplandeciente, que efectivamente, desintegré de un soplido. Pero no siempre. Si me quedo en silencio, puedo escuchar todavía el lastímero tintineo de las astillas que se quedaron clavadas en mis manos como las espinas de la rosa. Es terrible verlas introducirse, con tus ojos plenamente abiertos, tan hondo en la piel y tan rápidamente recogidas por la corriente de tu pulso, que se las lleva lenta pero imparablemente hacia la vorágine rugiente de tu corazón. Es terrible saber lo que pasa una vez lleguen ahí. Y que no me quede más que hacer que esperarlo, tan pacientemente, con dolor, con terror, con culpa, con deseo.

 

Es bien conocido lo catártico que es romper vidrio. Da miedo el planteo de acabar con la vida de algo valioso y bello, potencialmente útil y colmado, incluso cuando está hueco, de tanto esfuerzo. Sabes perfectamente que luego tienes que recoger los restos. Aún así, hay una bestia dentro de ti a la que, de algún modo, le da igual todo eso. El acuciante deseo de transgredir ese mismo respeto que en ti impone la ideación. De terminar de una vez por todas con ello.

Yo morí muchas veces de esta manera. Reventade bajo la presión del sol del mediodía, empujade al vacío desde el borde de una mesa, heche añicos en las manos de alguien que me sujetaba con demasiada fuerza. Del mismo modo, yo maté. Con y sin remordimientos. Alguna vez incluso fui mi propia víctima y mi propio verdugo. El denominador común siendo la transparencia. Todos y cada uno de esos yos se perdieron sin posibilidad alguna de arrejuntar sus piezas, desvanecidos para siempre de la existencia. ¿Cómo es posible, entonces, que siga aquí entere, escribiendo sobre el libro que me leí hace ya casi dos décadas?

Porque sigo y seguiré soplando pompas de cristal nuevas, por más que sepa lo que les espera.