To you

these are the words

i was never
brave enough
reckless enough
kind enough
to say

i’m sorry.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My question
Did it hurt?
Hurt when she left
and took all those years
of laughter and smiles
of inside jokes and games

with her?

Did it hurt?
Hurt when she moved on
and we all forgot
but you
who had wounds

that were still open?

Did it hurt?
Hurt to see her leave
without a smile
a tear
a note

for you?

It hurts.
I know

because i was there.

because i saw the light go out.
because i sensed the shadow.

It hurts.
I know.

because i was the cause.

---------------------------------------------------------------
I know I’m complicated.
That's an understatement.

I know my mind is a maze

that tricks you into believing
the treasure room is near
only to lead you to another wall.

I know my eyes are deep

beckoning you forward
full of dreams and hopes
until they turn black with storm.

I know my smile is shy

begging you to come close
to see me for who I am
only to turn dark when you do.

I know my face is lit

with mystery and beauty
and knowledge and hope
until the scars hide no more.

I know my heart is truthful

like a compass pointing
to an aim clear in the sky
only to lose its way when shadows come.

I know my words sound

like those of a brave soldier
who is complete and happy
until my voice cracks with pain.

I know my soul is filled

with aspirations of love
and books and dreams
only to die when reality crashes in.
 I know I’m complicated.
But that's an understatement.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i’m tired

I’m tired of everything I have being broken.

Broken to pieces, to wounds, to threats shouted into the night.
I’m tired of everything I have being black.
Black with hatred and pain and words that weren’t meant to reach me,
their ink spilling into my soul, turning me into something I’m not.
Thorns surrounding my mind, my heart, my body,
Making me bleed.
An open wound.

i’m tired.

Tired of being a garden closed off by a wall

A wall of insecurities and questions and shadows.
A wall that keeps me locked up inside
Letting the screams die in the void.

i’m tired.

Tired of being forced into the world

With blood dripping from my back
from wounds that have not yet healed.
Wounds they don’t even acknowledge
Wounds, inflicted by their own senseless words
Words meant to defeat one another.
Words not meant for me.

i’m tired.

But there is no rest.

Not for me or for them.
It is a cycle we find ourselves in.
Vicious. With love, and hope and expectations...

It starts with light.

A glimmer of perfection.
A kiss, a laugh, a holding of a hand.
We live in the ecstasy of it,
drinking in the happiness.
But deep down we know it’s fake.
It’s bound to break.

And we wait.
Wait for the pressure to grow.
For the glass to crack.
For the dream to be taken away.
We wait, knowing this is what life has become.

Then comes dusk.

Of deaths and endings and fears.
Death of a love that seems only to exist in the bright morning sun.
A love that runs when shadows come.
That hides, that is weak.
It is an ending of a happiness that is too perfect for this world.
A happiness that takes all it gives.
That leaves behind an ache.
Fear of the night of screams and tears and hearts of stone.
A night that hardens the soul.
That dampens the hearth.

It is this cycle we find ourselves in.

Vicious. With hatred, and lies, and selfishness.
We know this is what life has become.
A cycle that will never stop.

But i’m tired.

i’m tired.

i’m tired.

And it seems the only escape is in this poem.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
¿Quién es ella?

¿Ves a esa niña?

Sí, a esa en la esquina.
La que tiene un libro y parece vivir en otro mundo.
A esa niña que poco sonríe.
Que no recocha ni molesta.
La que se sienta al frente.
Es la estudiante estrella.
De la que todo el mundo espera la mejor nota.

¿Pero sabes quién es?

Más allá de las notas
Y exámenes
Y proyectos.
Más allá de las expectativas.

¿Quién es ella?

Una hija.
Una amiga.
Una hermana.

Una pregunta.
Una carga.
Una herida.

¿Me creerías si te digo

que prefiere el mundo literario?
Que ve en los libros
lo bueno de la humanidad.
Que con
el dragón y el fuego
el semidiós y la maldición
el aventurero y la muerte
ha vivido y llorado.
Ha crecido.

Y me verás como loca

cuando te diga que
esa niña
que parece fuerte,
es frágil.
Pelea. Grita. Cuestiona.
Juzga. Niega.
Llora.

Hay más.

Esa niña que ves

con cara de matemática
o médica o científica.
La que ya tiene la vida ganada
Quiere dejarlo todo e irse.
Lejos.
A un desierto.
 A una montaña.
A un campo de batalla.

Quiere dejar una huella en el mundo.

Un cambio.
Quiere ser como Gandhi
O Mandela.
O la nueva Madre Teresa.

Ya la verás.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the home comedy
ACT I
The curtains open, revealing the outline of a room.
It’s 10:00 pm. Dark

A sound can be heard on stage:

a mixture of laughter & cries & curses
a piano piece, threading together years of fights and tears and wound
It grows to a crescendo, slowly at first, then fast.

Then silence.

WOMAN: Why did you come back?

MAN: Because this is home.
WOMAN: Why don’t you leave?
MAN: Because this is home.
WOMAN: I hate you.
MAN: I know.

Act drop

ACT II
The curtains open, revealing the outline of the same room.
It’s 10:30 pm. A light is on.

Steps sound across the stage

fast & anxious

A boy and girl enter

They scan the room
WOMAN is curled up in the floor, her breathing hitching. The figure of beaten.
 MAN is lying down in the bed, pretending to be asleep. The figure of exhausted.

The boy and girl look at each other.

It’s just another day
another fight

They sigh.

Act drop

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(unfinished)
with every life ended
and every life lost
the pages grow thicker
with stories untold

the secrets we bury

and never let go
are finally written
in The Book of the World

and I wonder,
oh,
I wonder
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WOMAN: I gave everything for you
(They nod)
I gave you love, and a house, and a childhood
(Pause)
I gave you everything.
(She sobs)
I can’t give you more.
Don’t ask for more.
Don’t dare.
(They stare blank-faced)
I, I don’t know what to do.
Do you?
(They stare)
I am leaving.
Don’t come after me.
Don’t try.
(She leaves)
 (They stare at each other.
They do have an answer, just not the one she wanted.
They know she’ll come back
with a smile,
and give ​more
and ​more
and lose herself in the process
because that is who she is…
A MARTYR).
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
they stand before me torment
— broken and
so immensely tired — and I don’t intend to hurt them any more.
and I dare ask them
but it stings so much
if they are happy. to think that
for a while
I dare ask them, I’d want them to suffer
knowing what their answer will be, just so I would be able
knowing what impossible chance there is to smile
that in this coldness of life and feel
their answer is full.

yes. to feel accomplished

successful
It seems I can no longer good at something
hope to feel
happy, I have grown to hate myself
carefree, satisfied for the thoughts I have,
for my selfish desire,
because I now know for the way I fire up their discussions
that it will only bring hoping for a fight.
pain
I have grown to hate myself,
I now know and my constant dependence on
that my happiness their pain
means their struggle to feel a glimmer
agony of happiness.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-

I wish I could open up

and show you
the depths of my
despair

But it feels wrong

to force my heart,
bleeding
hurt
raw
into your hands,
knowing there’s too much
for you to handle.

I have learned
that others expect me
to know the answers
and be strong

To help when no one else does

and give myself in
to their troubles.

And I hold
responsibility
for this

because in my desire
to escape
i seek the stories of others