emmepeso

[emmepeso]

Origins

The nightmare begins when the fine lines                      between my chaotic reality and my dreadful mind get blurred.            Morpheus leads the way                                  as Virgil once did.      All the dark cracks of my mind are exposed                       wounds bleeding for me,             begging for me to get closer. The horror so big I can't look away. And I remember I abandoned all my hope before entering here. Can I long for purgation or am I damned beyond salvation?

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“– Que é que eu faço? Não estou aguentando viver. A vida é tão curta, e eu não estou aguentando viver.”

Clarice Lispector, em “A descoberta do mundo”

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Lá fora, a vida desfilava, impávida. Injustiça é o mundo prosseguir assim mesmo quando desaparece quem mais amamos.

Mia Couto.

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Jo (español)

La melancolía que me rodea, Abrazando mis sentimientos, También impregna mis poemas Y cuando pienso en ti O cuando mis entrañas Anhelan por escribirte a ti Espero a las nubes A la tempestad silenciosa A la calma tempestuosa A la amarga indiferencia. A todo que desvaye mi ser Para que yo no me sinta sucia por quererte a ti. Pero nada de eso viene. El humo del cigarrillo que compartimos      tarde en la noche, borrachas El ruido del carrito en que me empujas      en este edificio mal iluminado Y tu risa y tu sonrisa y esa confianza que no hiere La manera como casi canta mi nombre      cuando me llama y en llama me pone Todo ese fuego arde más intenso que el cinzento,      que el amarillo desvaído en mi corazón.

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Jo

A melancolia que me rodeia, Abraçando meus sentimentos, Também permeia meus poemas E quando penso em você Ou quando minhas entranhas Anseiam por lhe escrever Espero pelas nuvens Pela tempestade silenciosa Pela calma tempestuosa Pela indiferença amarga. Por tudo aquilo que desbota meu ser Para que eu não me sinta suja por lhe querer. Mas nada disso vem. A fumaça dos cigarros que compartilhamos      tarde da noite, embriagadas O barulho do carrinho em que você me empurra      nesse prédio mal iluminado E a sua risada e o seu sorriso e essa confiança que não fere A forma como você quase canta meu nome      toda vez que me chama e em chama me põe Todo esse fogo arde mais intenso que o cinzento,      que o amarelo desbotado no meu coração.

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god, GOD Freddie Mercury was such a fucking badass

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when we play pretend we dance around the room as if we were on exuberant balls as if we wore beautiful dresses and i wish to get lost in those dark halls where spring would forever bloom and this night would never end yet if you ask i'll stay and watch the sun rise because i adore how the day light is reflected on your eyes

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the blood that i bleed is not red

and the pain that i hurt is not human

that’s why i look at the sky

when crying alone in this dark room

the poetry in the stars brings me closer

to the mundane

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IN VINO VERITAS

Your cup makes my swollen lips red And your cold touch on my burning cheeks      sends shivers down my spine I know I'll carry the taste of your lips       on the tip of my tongue the whole night Yet none of this is enough. My chest begs for you — closer On weak knees I stand You hold me We dance Fallen Caravaggio angel, you taste like hell. Your cup makes your swollen lips bad.

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d e p r e s s i o n

every heartbeat hurts

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I feel like this is important. Dare to be yourself. And wear your colors boldly.

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Raining skies

         Love first approached me in a summer afternoon. With hands as gentle as the warm breeze on my skin, with brown eyes shining as bright as the noonday sun. Our conversation, youthful and lively, made the busy world around us stop. That bench in the middle of the woods made us feel like our little secret: we were far from the eyes of others and others were far from our eyes. That summer love made me feel like I could go anywhere, like I belonged everywhere — I got lost in smiles, ragged breathing, loud laughter and giggled whispers of sweet nothings in each other's ears.          Months passed. The colors of our summer love, just like the colors of the summer sky, faded to grey. Loveless months became loveless years, because in my young, confused mind love seemed impossible under autumn skies. The warm breeze was always completely consumed by cold winds that were never too gentle on my skin.          But then you came along, under heavy rain. You approached me from behind and put a thick jacket over my shoulders. We hugged and we stared at the streets washed by the raining skies. The place was filled with sounds of people rushing to their cars or to the nearest buildings, sounds of the wind and rain violently hitting glasses. The cacophony of the world was loud, yet you took me dancing in silence. I couldn't feel your touch on my skin, but your hands on my waist were firm.          The green in your eyes mixed with the grey of the sky, and the winds were awfully cold and the world had never stopped moving for us, but I didn't feel alone anymore. Holding your hand I knew once again I could go anywhere and belong everywhere, but I yearned for home and wished for your arms around me. Love had now a name and a face. Maria.

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They told me once, ‘don’t trust the moon, she’s always changing The shores bend and break for her And she begs to be loved

Good Mourning, Halsey

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caos de cacos

há pedaços, pedaços

pedaços

por todos os lados

de um coração quebrado

de um coração em cacos

— Emme Peso, 2019

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i just need everyone

Halsey, clementine. 09/25/2019.

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Love Letter

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Maybe, but love for sure.

It nauseates me a little to think we are immersed in a universe governed by both randomness and precision, the bittersweet taste of the chaotic indifference of destine burning in the pit of my stomach. It's a dreadful anguish to realize you can't foresee where life will take you, but of all the places it could've taken me, it has brought me to you. And maybe the relief overwhelming my heart now is what we call love. You see, you understand what it's like to grow up knowing how to become a creature so small you get lost in between the mice. But you also understand what it's like to not fit neatly into a box. No matter how many times we curled up in our beds — trying to go back to a silent existence inside a womb — we could never made ourselves small enough to be easily comprehensible. You understand the torture of being a paradox, being filled with void and being anxiously depressed. And maybe the similarities between our stories are what we call love. You also understand the beauty of an overflowing sensitivity that can make red poems about red roses out of any spilled blood. No horror go to waste, because all horrors are human. And maybe the grace we see in humanity is what we call love. When all the paths in my life had brought me to you I felt like I was coming home after a long time. We talked about two-headed calves, green everythings, cities in the sea, Portuguese oceans, short stories and memories as if we were reminiscing about faded childhood experiences. And maybe the curling tips of those yellowish photos we had forgotten about are what we call love. We've met again and nothing has changed. Our hearts are old friends. And maybe that's what we call love.