Stray hearts°

You look at me with kind eyes that stretch into the horizon, and whisper words made from the melody of your heartbeats. You look at me with feelings that flow, pouring flowers from your lips and onto mine. You stay. And I push. And you stay. And I can’t breathe. Because I look at you with the sorrow of the words you’ll never mean. I look at you with blame for all the pain you will impose on my survival. I see you on my sheets, staining them with your scent that will curl up under my spine and unearth my lungs.

I look like a fresh Lilly with dew on my petals, waking up on a Sunday morning, with life sprouting in my veins. I seem like a drowsy drizzle on the edge of your window, pulling you from your soft slumber to come play under the willow tree.

But fundamentally and down to the core, I am a drenched log, expanding from all the humidity that has caused my heart to weigh me down. I am a leap of faith that has seized to comprehend distance and dimensions. I am a sentence of jumbled up words allocating letters to the sounds they don’t belong to.

Love, I trust your eyes, your lashes clutching to them like they’re what make you thrive.

Love, I believe in the air that blows through your ribs, bringing you closer together.

I just don’t trust the time that it took for you to fall, the same time it will take you to put on your coat and walk away.


Contemporary art°

So smoke the flowers in my head into oblivion, desperately trying to turn memories into stories of pure fantasy. Tell me one more time that my bones grew thorns into your delicate skin. Draw on my back the scars of your heartbreak. Shed tears into my palms so I can turn them into a trophy and place it behind bars on a pedestal of sorts.

Darling, drain it all. Stain the sheets of our wilted petals. Fall apart on the pavement where we first realized it was all breaking into a million pieces.
And then dance.
Dance like the world owes you a lover. Dance like our love owes you empowerment. Move like your soul is made of mesmerizing ondulations.
Is that what you’re looking for?
A voice that resonates into your spine to convince you that you are ok. You are ok. You are ok.

Ode to my daffodil.

Hands on marble counters collecting dust from unwanted promises. Leaves torn up from naked branches fallen at the roots, hoping to be recollected in a warm embrace. I look at the walls I used to recognize so well, the pillars that used to keep me so safe, and I think about the last time this room felt like home.

Each time I revisit that house I come back with less spark in my eyes. A little more rotten. But the more I stay away, the more it has a hold on me.

So I walk in between the sheets of paper crumbled on the floor, worried that if I touch them I would succumb to what is written in between the lines, and I go up the stairs trying hard no to lose balance. There used to be pictures here… Now it’s just empty frames of forgotten memories. 

As I reach the little bed of cherry blossoms, I lay my head on stiffened feathers and I wonder if I should be dissapointed that they can’t see how shattered you made me, or proud because you taught me how to hide it so well.

Internal dialogues – Part I

She’s sunken in the ottoman in her friend’s living room, staring up in a daze. She has a lot to say. Of course she does, she always does. She has opinions about everything from fire ants to putting chipotle in green salads.

“What’s wrong with her?

  • Nothing! Don’t be an idiot!”

When Nadia was younger, she tried to tell her mom that she thought buildings shouldn’t be over 5 stories high because neighbors would be strangers, and what’s the point of having a neighbor?! But her mom was late for work? She tried to run after her… but her mom was always late for something…

“What do you mean?! Look at her! She’s so…

  • Don’t say it.”

All was fine with the world. Because Nadia read and drew and wrote. And she thought that that if she did all of that, then she would be able to hold her tongue… but boy was she mistaken. If anything her case grew worse! With all of the imagination she’s cultivated in her brain, words started spilling out like a serious case of chronic vomiting.

By the time she was 11, she went to a new school. She met new people. And she thought, oh so foolishly, that she could find someone who would understand her. Once she told this girl in class, that she thought about what would happen if firecrackers were put in a microwave. I mean obviously she knew it was a bad idea, but doesn’t it make you wonder nonetheless!?

Well, rumors travel fast in a small catholic school. And wouldn’t you know it, soon enough, Nadia started a continuous monologue for the remainder of her school experience.

“Maybe she had bad spicy food last night….

  • Does she eat spicy food?”

When she was 13, Nadia got bored with writing and painting. She got bored with school and mothers. So she thought about music… what if musical notes can deliver your thoughts from their self-inflicted prison?! So she learnt how to play the violin. And the violin started to feel like a nice familiar friend who didn’t care if she thought about whether the sea was reflecting the colors in the sky or was it the sky reflecting the colors of the galaxies.

But the violin came with its own friend. A man. A man that made her believe that the only way she could stay friends with the violin, was if she would be friends with him.

She really wanted to stay friends with the violin.

“Diana, I really think we should take her to the hospital.”

When she was 15, she realized that she started to hate the violin. And she couldn’t understand why. And then she told her parents that she didn’t want to be friends with the violin and the man anymore. And her parents did nothing. Her parents  didn’t ask. And the violin and the man were gone. But her thoughts festered.

“For what?! A bad case of the bafflement?!”



She held on to the chair as if to feel she was still in this reality, searching for stability while her world was tumbling to the ground. Her eyes grew narrow and her lips parted as if words were coming out but silence settled between her and the walls. Like a trembling leaf falling exquisitely from the tree, surrendering herself to the cycle of what must be, she gasped and lost all relation to the world.

Lights were flickering by and people were moving fast, like in those photographs where everything is hazy leaving a string of light, surrounding that one person standing still, lost in the only familiar place they could find. The crowd kept on brushing her sides, violating her body with their elbows and fingers, almost as if to whisk her back in, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Everything that was held by her flesh and bones was hollow.

Try and imagine, close your eyes and feel it, a big bushy garden torn apart by dead roses and oozing thorns, cradling a old house with cracks nibbling on its edges. Now imagine yourself opening the door, slowly as it squeaks, and squint your eyes to feel the dark. Can you see yourself in that vast empty hallway? Can you detect the magnitude of the ghosts lashing against the walls not being able to get through? Can you see the light under the crumbling doors not being able to reach the doorknob? Can you feel their eyes watching you as you just turn around yourself confused, mildly scared but mostly lost?

She tried to hold on to her pen again, write away the words festering in her  taste buds, rotting ever since she could remember, turning her breathe sour with rage.












Her words didn’t make sense; they didn’t collide into an orbit of metaphors and feelings. They just floated on a piece of wet paper and dried ink, bewildered not knowing if they had a purpose, not knowing if they meant well or were evoked to wound. But she kept on writing and writing, hoping that they would build up into a paragraph, a phrase, any similarity of an explanation.


 I wish I could shed my skin, breed new cells all over again and start a new pattern.  How I want to be untouched and untainted. I want to be clean of all of you, like a newborn’s skin, shining under the twinkling lights of the nursery

If only I could shake you out of my entire nerve cells down the ramifications of my spine. Wake up in the morning and smell the coffee and be reminded of everything new, without the cracking flashes of broken memories

Could I build 5 new senses? Exchange all the ones I have now, with all their emotional package and start over. I wonder how it would feel like to listen to my first song again. Would my ears tingle and my spine shiver

How I wish I was somebody new, unaffected by you, someone that wouldn’t remember you at every corner. I hope, from the bottom of my guts, from the fiber of every atom in my body, from all the energy that I still have in me that my scars would fade away; that people won’t just look at me and know that I am bruised and battered and shattered by my past

I pray for you to never feel possessed by somebody else, and if you do, then I pray you hide it well

Fly away*

If you must, fly away, fly away before you take me down with you. If you can’t help but drown with me, then spread your wings and let go, let go and you’ll see, you’ll be able to fly away.

This bubble is so fragile that my breath is bruising it, it’s disfiguring the rainbows and the day and the light. And I’m tired of holding my breath scared that it would burst. Tired of pretending that tomorrow morning, things will be alright again and that you’ll fly back in my arms.

The stars aligned for you, they bowed and cheered for you, they sprinkled silver moon dust on you. The galaxies smiled for you, the turned and colored for you, they sang you a lullaby. And the sky it stares at your picture perfect frame.

I know better than to take you away from that, I know better than to hold you back and hold on to you. I’m not strong enough for this. You can’t see how I’m shaking and my heart is racing hiding from you.

There are so many layers of clothes I wear so that you don’t see the scars on my skin, so that you don’t see my veins bleeding.

Fly, if you must, fly far far away. But don’t let me see you rise; don’t let me see you sore high in the sun; don’t let me see you be happy without me, because knowing I took it away hurts me more than you leaving.