stranger's disease

"i wish i believed you when you said that this was my home"



three: renting hotel rooms for two hours

i played dress-up and dress-down for strangers
i acted as if the world revolved around something bigger
placed the bets, lost the keys

the mirrors are eloquently placed to attack the body at an angle
it suspires and conspires against my will,
the lack of faith has been replaced
by the absence of the bible in the drawer.

there are a mixture of hotel rooms this year in my head
they resonate with not being able to deal.

i like them.
it makes me feel in perpetual motion.
escaping from nothing at all
for only two hours.

the hallways are almost always empty
fluorescent lights guide my nightmares
there are panels i can't touch and there's people i don't want to see

there's no will to call for safety,
the mattress is rusty and unhinged,
how many bodies
have been in your head
this week?

don't talk to me or look at me or pretend to love me.
it's not like i'm here to stay.
the appeasement was signed with blood and sweat,
 hands in throat
 legs instead



two: a dream unravels

the alarms go off in darkness.
i sit and wait, squint and allow light in me.
then i notice the break in silence. once again the heaviness abounds.
hoping to find safer shores, the wind keeps moving.
it revitalizes my intentions.
though i hear how i have been betrayed.

the dream this time
told the story of how i was once allowed into a place
whilst hearing your voices.
i fled as soon as i could but
there was this room,
and the terrace,
and infinity;
it all stood right behind me.
'i need to leave without being seen,' i claim.
'i need to escape. they could eat me alive'.

as soon as i am out the door,
the vision stops right before my eyes:
    her long flowery dress,
    her long auburn hair,
    (the impossibility of not being dreaming;
  the sweat of the fear)
and the knowledge that her presence
was enough
to swallow me whole.



one: rorschach

destruction deems heed
accustomed to policies in vain
a shelter of capillaries that drip
a song unsung and a wound unclean
a soft heart bleeding
 a chest bloating; midnight spasms
thoracic cavity wide open.

when she took the test
the images frowned upon me
and i could only look for bodies.
 the countless times
 i prayed for blood
 for a swollen gut

insatiable images of weakness
 unaccustomed this time
 to the cry for help in silence

this time i hope
i can save myself
from the blindness.





i am a mirror.
a contained self-reflection that
from within the creation
has solved the problem.
i am the mirror upon which every body
i've ever come accross
has seen a representation.
some of those might have not liked
the true face of chaos,
the bitterness of an unloving childhood,
the heartbreaking reality of a never ending cycle of anxiety,
or maybe even their rusty old bodies.
 feels like my body is an ocean.
at times i wish you'd visit my shores.
nobody is there anyway, ever, any time.
i am immense and vast as i seem,
 not that it bothers me, it's kind of innate at this point.
 it does seem to follow a pattern:
every day i wake, and see more than i want
 which in any case will trouble me,
when the light blinds my eyes and sets me on fire;
from the bottom of my throat
water will rise
and will dispense
the calm from which i know
i come from.



an internal structure, one (excerpt)

As it always seems to favor in one way or another the man is always the winner. In my life I’ve only seen men get away with what they want. I remember one night I was on a taxi after a party and the driver wanted to give me back my change and put a hand on my knee. Of course I did not move, of course I didn’t even plan on making any noises or actually just anything. The same image of the taxi driver, this old, black dude who tried to pick up conversation about the weather but I was too busy drunk tweeting about how much I hated men, he rises to my head each time I lose. Anything. Even if I lose change or a plastic bag. Doesn’t matter. Because he wasn’t trying to harass me, he wasn’t trying to abuse me. Rob me. Anything. He was taking advantage of me. That minute there I understood that fear has kept us undertow our whole lives, living prisoners of whatever we chose to subdue ourselves too. Maybe it’s a question of power, I get it, but it gets kinda tedious to always have to be fighting against men. Against other people who teach you that the best way to treat a man is to make them think they had your idea. Never be too smart. I was never good at handling that. I was never good at hiding my disdain for defeat. My feet never stood still on the ground when another man tried to take over. And when I say men I’m talking about them. About them. Those who rise in the morning and look at themselves in the mirror and see nothing but a lack of bilateral symmetry. Those who ignore their mothers, become jealous of their sister’s boyfriend, and make up rumors about their classmates’ sex lives. Those guys who sound their car horns at you when you walk by just to say hi. I’m talking about them, the infamous strictly conservative dudes who believe that same-sex marriage is okay but still “kinda weird” to call yourself a woman if you have a penis, or take it as an insult if someone tells them they do anything “like a girl”. I guess you’ve seen them. We all have. I’m still thinking if the taxi driver had been one of them too. 

Growing older doesn’t seem to foster wisdom. Actually what seems to flourish each time is boredom. We all reach a certain age with soaring levels of stress and phobias. We’re scared, not of the dark, but of silence. On an elevator, on a bus. When the other person doesn’t text. When your job application e-mail isn’t responded to yet. When your kid hasn’t texted he’s back home safe. We’re doomed by these small details, these tiny moments of unkindness that teach us to grow just a little bit stronger. We find ourselves decorating agendas to the fullest just in case they ever appear to be empty. Emptiness would only set the path to boredom, what we actually just seem to reject at all levels. With age you kind of learn to accept that boredom and make it yours. The realization that our bodies our only vessel on this journey and we must learn to live with it, no matter the cost or how hard it might seem, is glorious. Even when bodies grow stronger than our will and develop auto-inmune diseases. Even then, we need to learn to live our bodies and prepare ourselves for possible boredom.




you can’t tell me who i am
when i am not in peace;
when the ease of the travel has lost
its soothing properties.
there’s no defining of borders
lines and boundaries
when strictly
we are confounded in the nature of the abyss.
there’s no longer a prevailing disdain.
a misery lingers on through the body:
what runs through
and encages your fears till dawn?
could my empty hands hunt and kill
your witnesses and demeanors
to liberate your soul?
would then be easier for you
to judge the helping hand
not by the looks of its skin
but what it has gone through?
then god would be a definition
and the body would be a truth
installed deep inside the madness we see in each other’s eyes
when the day comes,
you’ll see my light
not outsmarting
neither outstanding
but always,
never ending.




i have found that
after the sadness,
comes the sun
there's light flooding every single corner
of a room unlit
i feel the wind rushing into me and it's not coming to get me:
this time i can approach
my own desires
with the calm understanding of a deeper truth,
the one that no longer keeps me shackled,
and doesn't bare my bones.
  after the storm i feel uniquely separated
from the aftermath i have caused.
the forces will steer us away
until the dusk approaches
and i can leave the sorrow


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