Yup.

This is not about you.
It’s about another man.
About other hands playing with my legs.
About other lips,
other words and other nights.

This is not about you.
Not about your hair, not about our past.
This is about waking up wrapped in new thoughts;
About another kind of lust,
another type of pleasure.

This is not about you;
It is not about forgetting you,
It is not about the task of getting over you.
or about the absence of you.
It’s about another man.

About the next years.
About being free and, apparently, still (damn!) attractive.
It is about worm beds and moist lips.
About desire, time and possibilities.
It’s about another man and what he might be able to do.

This is about discovering a new laughter,
About melting ice over other skins,
About new voices and new whispered sentences.
It is about fun, hunger and satisfaction.
It’s about all the little things another man will, probably, enjoy.

So, there.

Verdades.

Había escrito 361 palabras bobas; pero al final sólo necesito dos: Te deseo...
OK, tres: Te deseo demasiado.
Cuatro: Te deseo demasiado, ven.
U ocho: Te deseo demasiado, ven y te compro un helado.

(If you ever ponder about me)

I am:
Little things left and forgotten.
A collection of novels read and poems written.
Short hair, long hair; all the time: messy hair.
Pencils, acrylics and gel ink pens.
Doodles hidden away in notebooks, words published on blogs.
The dancing that nobody ever saw, pictures of tiny objects, big brown eyes.

I am:
The view from a number of windows, the soft cold air of some mornings.
A long catalog of men that I wish others would forget;
A small list of men that hold the world together.
Paper-mâché, ceramic and plastic.
Tangible skin; a kiss, a bite, a hand sliding down (a dark whisper that turns you on).
Tears of frustration, quiet afternoons, uncontrollable laughter.

I am:
A secret rendezvous and a not so secret affaire.
Cotton, silk and perspiration.
Red bull with vodka, coffee. An Ale and a Stout.
The desire to be like her (and the reality that I am not).
Edited memoires of friends.
A body without tattoos, a collection of scars.

I am:
The humming of a song, clumsy hands, playful feet.
More feelings that I can handle; an honest smile.
All the things that I told you and a few that I skipped.
Little things left and forgotten;
Things that I can’t get back, things that I don’t want back.
 A chaotic to-do list.

This is all I am:
(If you ever ponder about me)

Homemaker

And then you ignore my words,
but I have taught myself to not feel bad about it.
You come home and do not ask about my day,
I tell you anyway; I am sure you will like my adventures.
I cook; add the last slivers of cheese to the lasagna.
You eat, fast, never making conversation.
And I want to die, but I don’t know it.
I want to cry, but I don’t feel it.
Slowly, both these desires, will come to me;
It will take years.

By two.

They come in pairs; men do.
The haute couture and the prêt a porter.
They come in pairs;
The one you want, the one you get.

Alone in a room.

I feel like crying tiny words; tiny secret words.
I feel like crying tiny words that tell the floor all about being without you.
I feel like crying a tiny novel, not a short story, a tiny novel with 22 chapters.
I feel like letting the air read all about you, dying.
I feel like letting the tears do the recounting.

I feel like crying tiny secret words; tiny sad words.
I feel like touching your hand; your hand was always calm.
I feel like finding out about your day; I used to just sit and listen.
I feel like smelling that soft vanilla scent that came with you.
I feel like hearing you say those things, about my eyes; remember?

- And how are those big, beautiful, eyes, today?
- They are fine, Grandpa, still big and beautiful.
I feel like closing my eyes and never letting your voice go.
I feel like crying tiny words; tiny secret words;
Tell the chair, the walls, my sleeves that I miss you so much.

About the day.

Someone told me he liked my writings,
two guys told me the same about my photographs.
A friend left me a sweet, secret, message.
A follower left a comment.

I drank breakfast alone (coffee, in front of the computer).
I eat my lunch alone (fish, rice and water)
I asked a friend if he wanted to have dinner with me, he said no;
I had dinner alone (a pineapple filled whole-grain bar and juice).

A chap, that I could easily fancy, said hi (just because).
A chap, that I used to be fond of, said: You know what I love about you?
(I didn’t, now I do; he told me, it was nice).
Don't let that part of you fade - he replied, when I thanked him.

I did not have sex
(and I did not have sexual relations with that woman).
I did run around with the resident dog.
I added five friends and two strangers to Facebook.

I wrote six posts (two in prose and four weird poems; counting this one).
I chatted with my aunt on the phone
(in the background, I could hear grandma talking).
I had quite a lovely, tiny, conversation with quite a lovely, tiny, gal.

I did not cry.
I took between 150 and 250 photographs; uploaded eleven.
I had six different conversations via Messenger
Some were cute, some were boring.

I wrote this as my What-is-on-your-mind? status:
“This girl will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim.”
(A nice suicide note, if you happen to know someone named Jim)
I think it is funny, but nobody commented on it.

It’s 8:52 pm and I am listening to Bob Dylan
(Thinking about the opening credits of Watchmen).
I believe it is a lovely song to end this post with,
so the post ends but the day will continue…

Art appreciation.

I am thinking sexually about Picasso.
Wondering about what Rothko liked in bed;
if he was any good at all,
whether he preferred to be called Mark or Marcus.
Yes, I would have asked Pollock to splash paint against my body
Or to drip it slowly (let it trickle down my shoulder, Hun).

Seduction of the artist

I like it when your art gets messy and your words collide.
When it’s only monosyllabic grunts coming out of your smart mouth.
When you skilled hands hesitate for a moment... and then they go right into being skillful again.
I like it when you cultivated mind grows darker;
all the things you don’t dare create for public viewing come to you... and splash right into me.

New Possible Love

Is it Love if the only thing I know of you are the things you like?
Is it Love if I have no idea how you smell?
If I have never, ever, imagined what I would be like to kiss you?
If the only thing I want is to jump in your bed and talk about paintings?
Can it? Would it? Yeah, it would work.
This new, possible, kind of Love;
it would work.

Sounds like a plan.

You will talk, I will laugh.
I will chat, you will ask relevant questions.
I will dance; you can dance as well (if you want).
You will coordinate your socks to your pants,
I will use high heels on the weekends.

You work and I’ll write
(I will turn out to be a pretty good writer).
We will meet in the middle of the day for lunch or late for dinner.
You will cook the Asian inspired things, I can handle the European.
You do the Sunday breakfast, I’ll wash the plates.

I will read the Eurasian and Latin American authors;
You take the Americans and the British
(If something is really good we’ll tell each other,
If something is really bad we will joke about it).
We will take fun trips to bookstores.

For vacations? We can travel; I am good at it;
I can speak a little French and I am never picky with food.
We will visit modern art museums…
I am not into history, but I can go if you really want to.
I’ll take photos; you will pose for some of them.

Fridays and Saturdays we’ll go out with friends.
On Sunday we do grocery shopping and watch a movie (no chick flicks).
Sex will be good, never stale (actually it will be great, we both know it).
We won’t do anniversary parties, we won’t lie about feelings.
No uncomfortable silences, no need for spooning at night.

I will never say evil things about your mother
and you will have interesting conversations with my father.
We won’t discuss children; until we have to discuss them.
We will not elaborate about our future, but we’ll save money for it.
Slowly the plan will become a life (and we will be OK).

List.

I want you to cry for me.
I want you to cry because of me.
I want you to touch me in the morning a softly say: I love you.
I want to have a baby;
I want him to look like you,
and then a daughter with hints of me.
I want calm and predictable afternoons,
crazy funny nights;
Another type of story.
Books by the bed,
books by the living room.
A typewriter.
I want your love forever,
and to know that I will not die alone.
And to love forever.
To cry for you and because of you.
To touch you in the morning and softly say: I love you.

El club

Juran, todos los días, no apresurar la muerte;
Pero esperan con el alma que un autobús les haga el favor.

Quieren besos, pero no tienen paciencia para las charlas.
Quieren llevarte a la cama y hacerte gritar.
Quieren tomar café, tranquilos; vivir, lo que les queda por vivir, en paz.
Que tus comentarios no insulten lo que creen.
Que tus creencias resistan sus comentarios.
Que te vayas si te quieres ir, o te quedes, o te duermas o no te duermas;
Porque todo, incluso tú, viene siendo irrelevante.
Sólo ese autobús, con el conductor ebrio, sólo ese importa.

Friendo

Sorry friend, I know.
I know I can be annoying.
I know I can be too much, a needy little brat.
Sorry, I know.
I know sometimes my voice get too shrill; you can tell I want to cry,
And it makes you uncomfortable, because we are not of that kind.
Sorry my friend,
Sometimes I miss the stop sign and I keep on going, I run over a puppy and a cat
(this is an analogy, not an admission to a crime).
I am, terribly, sorry.
Hope you can forgive me.
Because I like you and I know I can be nice.
: D (see? Nice and almost normal!).
Sorry, I know, I’ll stop now.

I can’t be left alone.

I was thinking about it, you know, all of it, how it all went down; doing a forensic analysis of my life. But it’s not that easy you know? Too much sweat and blood around, DNA samples that could take a while.

I was thinking about boys and men, and when the former became the latter? Not sure. How can I tell?

I was thinking about being needy. I am. I want to have fun and sometimes that comes off as needy… other times it is plain needy that comes off as needy.

I was thinking about conversations; how nice and comfy they are. I was thinking about all those conversations I have in my head with friends, about all the make-believe chats I have with strangers. It’s easier than meeting people and I get to edit as much as I want.

I was thinking about being scare. About how scare I am. About how few things I have now. About how I had more things months ago (and I had to let them go), how I had many things years ago (and I had to let them go). How I had feelings and I have feelings, but the new feelings are much scarier.

I was thinking about dogs. About how far I am from having one. I first need a job, later an apartment (but it is going to be too small for a dog), so I will need to save some money, I will need to become better at the job I found, I will need to buy a car o a metro card, I will need to buy a bed, bedside table and a lamp (some books to read before dreaming), I will need to buy a nice painting done by a friend (a conversation starter for visitors), I will need to buy new clothes, smart shoes, makeup and a hair dryer (I am getting older and such things will become necessities). I will need to pay gas, electricity and internet. I will need to buy a phone… in the end, the bigger apartment will have to wait longer than expected; the dog will have to wait as well.

I was thinking about relationships. Will I ever want one again? Right now, I think not... but I am needy, I like conversations and I am scared, so maybe, in time a good man will sound nice.

How love works

I hear them fight, I am 8 again, but I don’t know it.
I don’t know it, because they didn’t fight when I was that young.
This is a new phase, a new hate.
I hear wicked comments, snappy answers;
I am 14 again, and I am not, because at 14 it was depression that ruled the house.
Nobody talked; the days were murky and endless.
She says something evil, he says something douchy.
And I am too old for this shit.
Why don’t you get a divorce? - I asked 12 years ago
That is not how love works - She answered angry.



I think she was wrong.

Cena.

Extraño los molletes que mi madre hacía cuando teníamos 6 y 8 años,
Los dejó de hacer. No sé cuándo; pero no recuerdo haberlos comido en la pubertad.
Los extraño tanto, supongo que porque se fueron al mismo tiempo que mi infancia
me recuerdan al tiempo calma, al tiempo lleno de seguridad y pijamas cómodas.

Los extraño, pero en defensa de mi madre, supongo que ella extraña tener hijos de 6 y 8 años.
Que ella también extraña el olor de pan tostado y queso derretido,
El olor que le recuerda a risas caóticas y preguntas fáciles de responder.
La salsa que no enchilaba, porque teníamos pocos años de haber dejado de ser bebés.

Extraño las cenas en familia, los bolillos cortados en cuartos,
El plato al centro para que todos pudiéramos tomar un pedazo.
Los deditos que se esforzaban por no quemarse, los humms y yumms en voces agudas.
La seguridad, la calma. Un día se había terminado pero por el momento sólo la cena importaba.

A day like today.

I don’t feel soft or attractive, or a woman.
I don’t feel beautiful, or lovable.
I feel predictable and pathetic.
Plan B, the thing you do if you have nothing else to do.
I don’t feel that the best is still to come,
I don’t.
I had the best, and the best is gone.
(Don’t get all happy, it was not you).
The best was that kiss at 21, my laugh at 17 and 22,
the friends I had at 18 and the plane rides that took me faraway.
The best was thinking that I had a future,
that was somewhat related to you, but not you.
The best was the rain falling over me and thinking that I wanted to live in Montevideo forever.
The best was a soft schmetterling whisper in my ear.
The best is long gone.
The best was my skin at 16, silently being discovered…
And I don’t feel my skin as skin anymore,
or that my words are interesting; they must not be, they must not be, they can’t be, because, well, because, how can they be?
And I don’t feel up for what is to come.
And I don’t feel much at all,
I just don’t.

New camera

I took some pictures of myself today, I look horrible. It’s not a self-esteem thing, I normally like myself. I look so sad, a mess; Dark circles, no color on my skin, my hair is dry. I couldn’t even manage to fake a smile. What would be the point of that? The pictures are for me, no use in faking my mood. So after 45 shots, I gave up; it’s not going to work, for a while. I have to deal with that, I have to find other models and subjects to photograph. Move on.

Instinct

Wake up the killer with a little tap on the shoulder, a soft bite on the arm, your hand caressing his back.
And when he wakes take a few steps back, a deep breath; the strike is coming; His body going for yours and then blank.

The nonsense thing I wrote for you.

I hate you, but not in so many words. It’s more a feeling, a new constant.
When I eat and then need to vomit or when I cannot stop eating for a whole day;
After bread, fruit, popcorn, cheese, ice cream. You are there.
When I go to bed and have nightmares or lay awake for hours.
When I feel happy and then question if it is only denial (that’s you).
When I believe that I could sleep with anyone and it wouldn’t matter
(That I could date anyone, that I could dump anyone,
that I could live with just about any guy, without it making a difference in my life)
When I think I could never love again or doubt if I ever did at all (yep, you too).

When I need to talk about it but I can’t; the words stop at my lips, the tears never come out.
When I have to change the subject or say “well, that’s life.”
When at 10 pm on a Sunday I need to write it all down,
The constant feeling that you embedded in me can be most easily described as hatred
(I hate you, but not in so many words, it’s something different that I have never known or named before).

Epilogue.
Then I wish you never existed.
Then I know that you are my brand new baggage.
I understand that you have made me more difficult to like, almost impossible to love.
You made me a girl with trust issues an older woman.
That sad story that nobody what’s to tell.
And I do, in a quiet and daily way, hate you.

Derramar lágrimas

Quiero llorar todo lo que no he llorado.
Inundar mi abdomen con las lágrimas que te pertenecen.
Quiero llorar, dormir llorando, soñar que lloro
y despertar aun con lágrimas escurriendo por mi cara.
Quiero no sea fácil, que al cuerpo le duela el llanto.
Quiero que lo escuchen los vecinos, se pregunten qué cosa trágica me ha pasado.
Quiero comprimir meses de drama en algunas horas, un día tal vez, no importa.
Llorar durante el desayuno, que mi café sepa raro.
Llorar mientras reviso Facebook, contestar mensajes, hacer comentarios.
Llorar tomando fotos; cuando las subo a mi pc, elijo unas para editar y borro otras.
Quiero llorar y sacar al perro a pasear, que en la playa otras personas caminando nos observen, deduzcan que alguien querido ha muerto.
Quiero que alguna señora me pregunte: Mija ¿estás bien?
Y yo pueda contestar: Si, señora, sólo era tiempo de llorar (seguir caminando).
Quiero llegar a casa, un poco sudada y muy llorada.
Cambiarme de ropa, porque la que traigo ya carga muchas lágrimas y pesa.
Ponerme algo cómodo y llorar mientras me preparo un té.
Llorar mientras selecciono 3 galletas de la caja de Galletas Selectas (sólo tres, porque estoy a dieta).
Y llorar.
Llorar mientras disfruto de la merienda.
Llorar mientras veo un poco de tele.
Llorar mientras bajo (ilegalmente) música y mientras la escucho.
Llorar preocupada cuando leo un libro, porque mojar sus hojas sería trágico.
Quiero llorar y preguntarme si será buen momento para la cena.
Llorar mientras examino el refrigerador para encontrar ingredientes...
(¡Demonios! ¡No hay queso!).
Llorar mientras espero que se caliente la avena en el microondas.
Llorar, cenar avena… y un durazno.
Llorar, leer un poco más, encontrar una cita interesante.
Pensar en ella, pensar en mí, pensar en ti, llorar… volverla a leer.
(“I didn’t say I was happy with my life. I said that I was fine, as in no colds, no recent traffic accidents, no suspended prison sentences, but never mind.” Nick Hornby, High Fidelity.)
Llorar, pero no tanto.
Sonreír con un poco de culpa.
Secar las últimas lágrimas y seguir con la vida.

Un cambio de sexo mental

Quiero ser un chico, tomar unos tragos y dejar de lado mis problemas.
Ver mujeres pasar y preguntarme sobre sus aptitudes en cama,
Desear tetas, tocar tetas y olvidar tetas.
Borrón y cuenta nueva.
Quiero ser un chico con chamarra de cuero,
Para que todos estén advertidos de mi maldad.
Quiero ser un chico que se junta con otros chicos
Para hablar de parrandas y hobbies;
Tener temas en común, todos los chicos se masturban básicamente igual…
Las chicas difieren y eso nos separa.

Quiero comer lo que sea y no entender la directa relación que eso tiene con mi peso.
Quiero cabello corto que puedo atiborrar de gel y ya:
No se mueve, no incomoda, nadie lo nota o juzga.
Un chico o un hombre, que para mí sería lo mismo.
Saber jugar videojuegos, saber tocar algún instrumento…
lo sé, lo sé, aun siendo mujer podría saber hacer esto,
pero prefiero culpar mi sexo que mi talento.
Quiero ser un chico, un hombre, maduro e inmaduro al mismo tiempo;
La nueva manera de existir, responsable con lo que tengo y no buscando más.

Un chicho, un chico, un chico...
no más esta mujer idiota.

Non-fiction.

I want to tell you about the fiction that I did not write,
Well, I did write it down, but it was never fiction.
It was about sex (it all ends up being about sex, if you give it enough time).
You thought I was smart enough to imagine things so dark and despicable,
but I wasn’t; I was stupid, stupid and flexible.
Stupid and easy.
Stupid and vile.

I called it fiction, because in our bed I was simple,
the common girl; afraid and sympa.
I don’t really know why I never told you.
It was just funny,
to know you wanted something but were afraid to ask.

It was evil of me, I know.
That is why I now confess,
I was a very bad girl and then
I was a very bad girl again.

Edad.

Lo siento nena; pero espero que un día entiendas que el mundo no es como tú sientes que lo tocas.
El mundo tampoco es como yo creo que lo veo, pero por lo menos a mi edad,
una ya no anda por ahí pensando que sabe exactamente en dónde caen sus zapatos.
Espero lo entiendas un día y mientras tanto dejes de jalar de mi manga,
que no tengo ganas ni tiempo para explicarte lo que pasa.

It’s nice to have friends, isn’t?

Because when you are acting all emo, they say things like ¨You are being an ass¨ or ¨Stop being such a lame emo, you dork¨, then, you, for the friendship’s sake, take a drink, eat some peanuts and forget all about your problems.