the week is nearly over. again.
and it feels like rain on skin in the heat of summer, raising goosebumps in spite of its warmth.
i never want anything to end.
not even nightmares.
i drag them out carefully, tossing and turning, roasting, like a pig, in my own cold sweat.
i had one every night this week. sometimes two. and i remember. i don’t keep tabs on my subconsiousness because it scares me. the brutality of the mind always scares me. and i dream of death. of death and failure.
y flores. flores para los muertos.
right now, my world is a house made of paper: cards with pretty scribbles on them, where blanche‘s words i lived in a house where dying old women remembered their dead men have more than substance; they have depth to go on and on, revolving in my head.
i’ve seen them from every angle. i swear.
what is it with death?
i’ve always said i have to die before the one i love. i couldn’t stand life otherwise. and i’ve made you promise you won’t die before me. i’ve made you promise me the unthinkable, the unpredictable, the unpromisable.
i did it just because sometimes i just need to know that you won’t die.
Posted in chapters of my life
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one more year nearly over but this time i won’t attribute it to anyone. no, not to you or X or Y. it wasn’t mine either for it took me on a ride, spinning me around on a carousel of heights. and i can’t see the lows, looking back into all that time through my rose-tinted glasses. i can’t.
lets leave them lurking in the shadows, where past has teeth and broken dreams, like glitter, pave the floor.
i’ll visit them again. i have before.
i’m supersticious.
and i believe.
i believe that one must welcome a year in with the colours of its chinese animal; that one must drink a glass of champagne as the clock stikes midnight; that the way one spends new year’s eve will be the way one spends the year.
my supersticions supersede any norm of rationality, but darling, you said so yourself, i’m the luckiest person you know.
lets believe.
believe that there’s some truth to supersticion after all and drink champagne tonight.
and it’ll be the night when i will set the sky alight, our paper lantern flying up above. i’ve found love.
Posted in chapters of my life
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and we can’t even fight properly.
have we lost that ability or did we never have it in the first place?
and our mean words are pebbles, small, insignificant; each hit a vague pain somewhere in the nether regions of the heart, but tell me, is our love not strong enough for boulders to be flying, for pain to be immense, almost insufferable?
I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me
i want it to take the whole of me. i want to have no mercy and recieve no mercy back.
and every time we fight, sparks fly but the fire never ignites.
and every time we fight, there is no anger, just sadness, scaring us into oblivion with the thoughts of losing each other. the notion of how life would be if we were apart, different people loving us, needing us, prepared to die for us; breaking hearts.
yesterday everyone found out about us.
i didn’t like that and we fought, fear eveloping us like misty green haze of jealousy.
and there was no anger, only wronged love.
Posted in chapters of my life
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we all want a fairytale, don’t we?
a prince, a castle, a fairy godmother and a happy ending.
us, girls, seem to be born with this idea that one day, a prince will find us. yes, he will definitely find us and sweep us off our feet. it’s not a collective motion either – my prince will not be her prince; if fact, her prince will be not much of a prince at all.
each girl will get her own version of perfection, but my perfection will be the perfection, is what we think.
you nearly asked me out this thursday. exactly two months since we first started on this journey, on this path to love and need and yearning.
it was the first of the month, the first of april – april fool’s day, no less – the and somehow it felt that if you asked me then, it’d be a joke. and jokes don’t count.
i couldn’t settle for the flawed perfection, non. it had to be my way or the highway. it always does.
so give me a fairytale, mon coeur. show me the the world through the rose-tinted glasses and whisk me off to the castle i’ve dreamed off since i was a little girl.
it’s easter after all.
Posted in chapters of my life
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glittering soot on her eyelashes 
