domingo, 3 de diciembre de 2017
Denise
Me pierdo en el azul de tu corte de pelo
Como un Carlitos Balá moderno,
En tu risa nerviosa,
Sos la primera chica por la que realmente siento cosas,
Más que apretar una noche de boliche,
más que un roce, piel con piel.
Me gusta escucharte,
Me gusta leerte.
Me gustan tus abrazos,
Tus brazos, tus manos.
Sos redescubrir mi sexualidad,
Sos liberación sexual,
Sos el asesinato en masa de los prejuicios,
Sos una compañía grata.
Aunque a veces
me tenés comiendo de tu palma,
y no te das cuenta,
que tu indiferencia me mata.
domingo, 26 de noviembre de 2017
La verdad que se pueden ir todos a la mierda,
al carajo,
al lugar más lejano del mundo.
Me siento sola
Me siento usada
Boludeada
Sola
Me siento sola
Muy sola
Se me revuelve el estómago
Se me revuelve el cerebro
Dar afecto
Que te tomen para el boludeo
De repente soy un tajo
Un apretón cada tanto
No soy lo suficiente para un compromiso
No soy lo suficiente
Nunca alcanzo
La psicóloga dice que siempre espero el rechazo
Pero no soy yo la que lo espera
El rechazo me espera a mí
sábado, 25 de noviembre de 2017
viernes, 10 de noviembre de 2017
martes, 24 de octubre de 2017
Me caigo y me levanto (repeat)
Llanto desconsolado y tres respiraciones cortitas.
Cuando dejo de llorar siempre largo respiraciones cortitas.
Se agita mi pecho, me duele la cabeza, y respiro mal.
Y todo alrededor se desmorona, yo me desmorono, todo esta desmoronándose
al ritmo de tres respiraciones cortitas.
Me pesan los ojos, me pesa llorar, me pesan los ojos, de nuevo los ojos,
me pesan los ojos, rojos, hinchados, hartos, mis ojos están hartos,
yo estoy harta.
Y vuelvo al pozo donde cada tanto reposo,
ese pozo donde me tiró mamá
donde me tiró papá
donde me tiraron los de Recursos Humanos
donde me mantuvieron cautiva los rechazos constantes,
la falta de amor,
la falta de interés,
ese pozo del que no sé salir,
de donde ya casi no intento escapar,
Me pasa una cosa mala y de repente se me viene encima
toda la estantería
cada momento de mierda
cada angustia
cada frustración
cada palabra hiriente,
y se me corta la respiración
y tiemblo,
y me muevo por todas partes sacudiéndome
como si me atacara el peor de los inviernos,
y largo tres respiraciones cortitas.
Cuando dejo de llorar siempre largo respiraciones cortitas.
Se agita mi pecho, me duele la cabeza, y respiro mal.
Y todo alrededor se desmorona, yo me desmorono, todo esta desmoronándose
al ritmo de tres respiraciones cortitas.
Me pesan los ojos, me pesa llorar, me pesan los ojos, de nuevo los ojos,
me pesan los ojos, rojos, hinchados, hartos, mis ojos están hartos,
yo estoy harta.
Y vuelvo al pozo donde cada tanto reposo,
ese pozo donde me tiró mamá
donde me tiró papá
donde me tiraron los de Recursos Humanos
donde me mantuvieron cautiva los rechazos constantes,
la falta de amor,
la falta de interés,
ese pozo del que no sé salir,
de donde ya casi no intento escapar,
Me pasa una cosa mala y de repente se me viene encima
toda la estantería
cada momento de mierda
cada angustia
cada frustración
cada palabra hiriente,
y se me corta la respiración
y tiemblo,
y me muevo por todas partes sacudiéndome
como si me atacara el peor de los inviernos,
y largo tres respiraciones cortitas.
domingo, 15 de octubre de 2017
Goodbye Winter days
I can't get out of this hole where mum buried me on July 19th 2015, when she kicked me out of my house and left me on the street, in her state of alcohol and pills. I picked up my things in a bag, San Cristóbal was silent. I screamed, like if someone was going to help me, to listen to me, to give me a hand. I screamed because that day I colapsed, my life colapsed. That day, that winter, I died. I was lost and alone.
Last winter I turned 20 and that feeling comes back to me frequently.
Sometimes I look around and I'm scared. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to jump from really high and crash against the floor. I can't understand my place in this world, if there's one for me, or why my mum didn't abort me when she could, if she was going to throw me away like a thrash bag, like a dog that isn't cute anymore, like a piece of shit. "There's no manual for parents" my father used to repeat to soothe his conscious.
My life is about climbing on shit steps. One day you work in an office and they hide you when AFIP comes, the next time you are working ilegally 10 hours a day for an old mysoginist man, then you work cleaning the bathrooms at Mc Donald's. Shit steps, dragging myself in shit steps, trying to climb, looking for somewhere to get to when you don't belong anywhere, without actually knowing what do you want or where do you want to get, climbing because maybe you will fiend a clean surface, something equilibrated, an stable place, something stable after all this shit, climbing because they tell you you can't give up, that is not worth it, that you're running away from your problems. "That's for pussies". I want you to shut up. Stop giving me stupid advice and get in my shoes for a minute. Stop minimizing my pain, stop telling me that "there are worse things", stop making me feel worse than how I already feel, less understood and more marginal than how I already feel.
I see myself climbing, step by step, and shit has more shit in it, and I drag myself on it, and I can't do this anymore. The days I feel like this I drown in my own issues, in $67 pesos per hour, in my parent's abandonment, in Martin's rejection towards me and how he broke my heart in a thousand pieces, and how stupid I feel saying this corny stuff, how stupid I feel for falling in love, how I remember him everytime I masturbate or lit a cigarette, or in every fucking station of "A" Subway. Suddenly everything colapses and I feel I'm going to explode, I want to run, I feel like when I do this there won't be turning back. I squirm in pain and sadness in my bed, that's not my bed, it's a bed in somebody else's house, I don't have a place on my own, I don't have a place to die, I could die on Mc Donald's floor, or jumping from the balcony at a friend's house, but I don't have my own place, my own place to die.
Sometimes I look at myself and I want to give me a hug, because with all these things hanging in my back, feeling a load for me and for everyone else, feeling like this baby that wasn't loved and now is an unloved adult, I go out, I work, I come back, sometimes I laugh, I make people laugh. I love myself for my strenght, for my determination, I love myself despite wanting to kill myself, I love myself because I know I'm the only thing I have, my own motor.
Last winter I turned 20 and that feeling comes back to me frequently.
Sometimes I look around and I'm scared. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to jump from really high and crash against the floor. I can't understand my place in this world, if there's one for me, or why my mum didn't abort me when she could, if she was going to throw me away like a thrash bag, like a dog that isn't cute anymore, like a piece of shit. "There's no manual for parents" my father used to repeat to soothe his conscious.
My life is about climbing on shit steps. One day you work in an office and they hide you when AFIP comes, the next time you are working ilegally 10 hours a day for an old mysoginist man, then you work cleaning the bathrooms at Mc Donald's. Shit steps, dragging myself in shit steps, trying to climb, looking for somewhere to get to when you don't belong anywhere, without actually knowing what do you want or where do you want to get, climbing because maybe you will fiend a clean surface, something equilibrated, an stable place, something stable after all this shit, climbing because they tell you you can't give up, that is not worth it, that you're running away from your problems. "That's for pussies". I want you to shut up. Stop giving me stupid advice and get in my shoes for a minute. Stop minimizing my pain, stop telling me that "there are worse things", stop making me feel worse than how I already feel, less understood and more marginal than how I already feel.
I see myself climbing, step by step, and shit has more shit in it, and I drag myself on it, and I can't do this anymore. The days I feel like this I drown in my own issues, in $67 pesos per hour, in my parent's abandonment, in Martin's rejection towards me and how he broke my heart in a thousand pieces, and how stupid I feel saying this corny stuff, how stupid I feel for falling in love, how I remember him everytime I masturbate or lit a cigarette, or in every fucking station of "A" Subway. Suddenly everything colapses and I feel I'm going to explode, I want to run, I feel like when I do this there won't be turning back. I squirm in pain and sadness in my bed, that's not my bed, it's a bed in somebody else's house, I don't have a place on my own, I don't have a place to die, I could die on Mc Donald's floor, or jumping from the balcony at a friend's house, but I don't have my own place, my own place to die.
Sometimes I look at myself and I want to give me a hug, because with all these things hanging in my back, feeling a load for me and for everyone else, feeling like this baby that wasn't loved and now is an unloved adult, I go out, I work, I come back, sometimes I laugh, I make people laugh. I love myself for my strenght, for my determination, I love myself despite wanting to kill myself, I love myself because I know I'm the only thing I have, my own motor.
martes, 10 de octubre de 2017
Volantear
¿Qué tal señor? ¿Qué tal señora? Aquí tiene un volante. Es irrelevante su contenido, probablemente no afecte su recorrido, pero me mandan aquí afuera, al rayo del sol, con este calor (olvidé ponerme protector) a repartir estos volantes, y solo le pido que extienda un poco su mano, agarre uno y siga su camino.
Puede tirarlo al terminar de leerlo, puede tirarlo sin leerlo, puede guardarlo en el fondo de su bolso, de su mochila, de su billetera, puede hacer con el lo que desee, incluso origami, o sonarse los mocos. Pero no me sea indiferente, no ignore mi pedido. Tome uno, no es tan difícil. Extienda su mano, abra un poco los dedos, mire a su costado y verá a su humilde servidora colocando un volante en ella. Por favor, no se espante, es mi cara de las mañanas. Ahora, siga caminando. Un gracias no vendría nada mal, pero no es obligatorio.
En vez de ser de esa gente que aborrezco, que me voltea la cara, que me mira con desprecio, que me ignora, que hace mis minutos en la calle un suplicio, tome un volante, solo eso le pido <3
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