The song that keeps playing

( A Performance)

That night is my number one hit,
that night is the song that continues to play I remember holding the steering wheel tightly
as your slurring attacks beside me made me swerve from the
path of reality I needed to drive in.
It was raining...or I was crying, my memory
keeps changing every time I'm reminded
of something else I've done wrong.

But that night you told me you didn’t give a shit

about what I'm feeling, a disdain is so palpable, so strong, 
the scars in my skin erupted in a million tiny shards of fear
the words in my heart shattered in my trembling teeth
and we arrived. You got out of the car
and I sat in that driver's seat
too overcome by a wave of defeat to move
 until you tapped on my window and told me to get out.
I was trapped, the wheel already too far for me to take back,
I pleaded, and I cried and I asked you to let me go,
to please let me retract
you stood by my window and simply said " No."

I'm sorry...
I shifted gear, hit reverse and what followed next
was the perverse sound of your hand crashing down,
a thunderbolt of authority and anger crushing my will and standing,
You shattered that mirror, pointed at me and uttered a direct threat
"You'd better not come back"
My rearview has never been so slicing.
My muscle memory warns me that my vulnerability
makes violence enticing
So In a spree of madness I left.
And then…It dawned on me…
Our son…must’ve heard.
 I ran back instantly and he was there
awake, innocently unaware of my terror,
his tiny hands tending to your angry wound and my error...

Maybe...Maybe I'm making it sound worse than it was...
I know we have misunderstandings, miscommunication,
saying things we don't mean, only adds to the frustration
of not getting our points across,
I didn't want to bother you,
but that song has become my cross.
I'm sorry...I'm sorry...

You're right, nothing happened
I might just be imagining things.
Victimizing myself, maybe I do need thicker skin.
I  repeat this trying to overcome this entangled
web of damage that is my psyche;
I'm sorry, I keep apologizing

I'm sorry that your touch frightened me
i'm sorry I flinched away. fear overrides me,
I'm sorry if seeing me crying is not something you want,
but I'm not strong enough to see you drunk and not take a step back
I'm sorry, I feel that your cruelty knows no boundaries,
and holds a crown in matters that make you feel attacked
I'm sorry, I wish you knew how much I love you
and how much I wish you knew how to love me back.

Maybe you do and I dont know what love looks like?

I’m sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry
These words, this song, they plague me,
I don't know what's real or what's left.
 Am I speaking too fast?
" I don't give a shit that you're crying"
" I don't give a shit about what you're feeling"
" You know better than this."
" You must be on your period."
" Stop behaving like a child."
" You know I didn't mean it"

These words are all I hear
the routine of a life well disciplined
I hear and I can't hold them back
Maybe I'm just too naive.
maybe there's an insight that I lack.

You're right. It's my fault.
I’m sorry that when you’ve tried to read me
I become nothing but ancient hieroglyphs
my body is a cavern you’ve claimed
without figuring, out-side I’m leaving
tiny breadcrumbs to lead you 
but your vision is too narrow to see them
 I’m sorry that my voice is a wavelength of confusion
and sorrow and exploring me is too damn different to
other caves you’ve visited
I’m sorry maybe I really am just a cheesy poem of pain and puzzles
maybe I really am spoiled and childish when writing,
But I can’t do anything about it
poetry is the only language in whicn I am consistent
I’m sorry I can’t teach you how to read them

You're right...
I'm sorry I  put you through this.
words have failed to reach me
but like that night, that song plays repeatedly
I'm sorry, I'm sorry..
I should show better appreciation
for the man who supports this family

I’ve been lost so long I can’t tell which way I’ve written
I deserve it. The song is part of my payment.
I've never stopped feeling so desperate.
I shouldn't have spoken...
You're right  I am nothing but a pile
of stalling rhymes and a broken record so loud
I can’t remember what music sounds like

I don’t deserve to be frightened.
between you and me, I'm the idiot
That song, my hymn, I can't shrug it,
why can't I understand that that mirror is broken
because of me?

My dreams are graded in thoughts of fear and heartache
and prevent me from focusing on anything,
I know I am broken and I'm damaged...
I'm sorry please be patient with me..
I will try and try until I develop a thicker skin
I will do my best not to trigger your anger
I will do my best, and I mean it.

Even if driving with a broken mirror is not as easy as it seems.
Even if striking -me- this time sounds like I would deserve it.

Oda a las 3 de la mañana

Frrrrrrrrrrrrrr! PAH! PAH! PAH!
EXPLOSIONES!
Rápidas, una detrás de la otra, una secuencia alarmante y repetitiva que asesina la tímida madrugada y desgarra el sueño profundo!

El humo coge forma y empieza a espesarse. El olor a quemado invade la noche, anunciado el humo y la cachispa gritona.

Gracias canto de cabron que decidiste explotar petardos sin conciencia de los demás. Tú, cabron, que disfrutas de tu inmadurez con camino sin rumbo. Qué rico placer es tener mierda en la cabeza que te nubla. Espero que te lo hayas disfrutado, esa sensación pasajera de adrenalina, el retumbe del corazón, en tu carro blanco - sabiendo que habías causado que gente se asustara. Disfruta cabron, por qué una tarde te levantaras con el peso de la incertidumbre. Donde no sabes qué pasó con tu vida. Que ella demanda sacrificio y sangre y tú estás muy tierno para poder pagarlo. Pero ya no importa porque la vida lo requiere y siempre lo cobra aunque tú no quieras, aunque no puedas y siempre por donde duele más.

Disfruta cabron porque una noche a las 3 de la mañana no podrás dormir, el no tener rumbo te llena de ansiedad y trae su amiga inseguridad para hacerte compañía.

Disfruta porque la crisis existencial es segura y tus lagrimas la evidencia y ese pensamiento me reconcilió con el sueño.

( y así comenzamos, respondiendo al caos del mundo, por que si no lo hacemos jamás podríamos conciliar el sueño y la mente. 

Además, que rico se siente desearle crisis existencial a quien nos devela por pendejases.) 

"Teach me how to say good-bye"

I have a song stuck in my head. " One Last Time"  from the Hamilton Musical. Which is when Washington decides he won't run again for President. 

" We're gonna teach them how to say good bye, you and I."

It got me thinking,

You never learn how to say good bye. No matter how many scripts we write. There's always a hindrance to ending things. At least for me. I will always try to transform instead of closing a chapter. People marvel at how George R R Martin isn't afraid to kill his characters, but if you think about it, it's easier to kill a character than to keep it alive. He's not awesome because he kills major characters, anyone can kill characters. He's awesome because his character development and world building is thorough enough that it doesn't rely on a character being alive to still be relevant and interesting. 

Okay I diverged.

My point is, that I've always been afraid to say good bye, I've spoiled myself with techniques to transform and adapt instead of ending and disappearing. 

Of course I'm not saying that it's the best course of action, there will always be instances where ending and disappearing is heathier than transforming. It's not always up to you. And transforming takes a lot of will to not turn it into an excuse to lie to yourself. It's selfish in so many ways.

See, when I meet someone enough to trust them, to intimate fears and share thoughts and experiences, that rapport takes a piece from me. Everyone I love and trust has a piece of me embedded, and I dare to say that the moment I inspire someone enough, I take a piece of them. 

Saying goodbye will always be to destroy a piece of that soul. If that piece of the soul you took or gave is well taken cared of or not is irrelevant, it is still a type of soul death. And nothing in the universe can ever prepare you for soul death.

( Yes there is a horcrux undertone to this train of thought, but bear with me)

I feel like that with connections. It's why it's hard for me to imagine myself painting and selling what I paint, I'm not saying it's wrong, just that I attach a bit of my being to a drawing, or a book, wether close or far away it's there and it's hard for me to detatch enough to sell it. I would rather give it away, as gifts, instead of trading something alive like a piece of my art for something dead like money.

Fuck...

I'm gonna be a hoarder as an old lady aren't I....

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Cf3fnYu5KK0

Rainbow Connection

"the lovers, the dreamers, and me"

No manners

That is an invasion of privacy and a complete lack of respect! - I love it

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Testing

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as a test.

I didnt know I could do that.
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