fem el que podem

intento escriure, però res d'això m'hi cap als versos. la poesia em costa. buscant un punt mig entre la covardia i l'imprudència em pregunto si hi ha remei.

m'obsessiona el mar. la manera exacta en que flotava llavors, quan no hi havia llum i tot semblava tendre perquè ja s'acabava. com es passa de les nits d'asil a rendir-se a l'aigua gelada de les cinc de la matinada?

la ràbia agafa fort el plor que ja s'escapa i m'ajuda a fugir. un cop més. porto tretze hores al llit, i pensant en el menjar que es florirà a la nevera em pregunto si hi ha consol. s'escola el sol per les escletxes de la persiana, i no et demano que vinguis. deixo que es faci de nit.

los amores que pudieron ser (i)

looking back we might have been too young, but your tongue was cold and you looked so sweet as the winter sun started setting. i'd always hated the long freezing nights but your mouth made dark 5 p.m. feel less like suicide.

mostly because your skin brought back the innocence i'd lost. despite your drugs and my lying and the sick way i was set up and ready for death, you were clean and made me purer. i don't know how you did that. 

and now years have gone by and i can't stop thinking about that time you fed me strawberries.  the gentle touch of your hands, palms fitting exactly where my body curves.  you'd never loved before, but your certainty was baffling. no pubescent awkwardness, no hesitation. 

you simply knew, and sinning with you felt forgivable. the taste of fruit lingers.