lilacenough

[lilacenough]

teenage life through an old notebook

(I wrote this when I was 17)

I look at my secret notebook. Mind you, not “secret” because I cared enough to hide it, or anything. It was a “secret” notebook because no one seemed interested enough to ask about it and make it, like, not a secret. So, I grab my notebook and I flip through the pages that are filled with terrible drawings that I’m extremely proud of, and song lyrics that I, sometimes, inocentely, foolishly, (narcissistically,) think somehow were written for me. There’s also some random thoughts about life jotted down that I think are original, but statistically have already been thought. And written down in better words, probably. It still doesn’t hurt to keep on writting.

,

[lilacenough]

I figured out why I liked you.

I used to always lie before.

When people asked me why I liked you,

I didn’t know that there was more.

I liked that I coukd trust you

I loved that you were there.

I never had someone before

who answered calls, somone who cared

I used ti write these silly poems,

or words that incidentelly rhymed,

about a person on their lowest

and how they managed to stand by.

And then came you,

or, rather, went I

and you picked up all my calls

And then you asked,

and I said yes.

Never again did I feel small.

Never again lasted few years,

and then you stopped picking up calls.

What could I’ve done?

What could I’ve said

to keep you from wanting to fall?

...

So you would think

That after I

found out you lied right to my face

I wouldn’t want

to see you here.

Wouldn’t invite you to my place.

But you’d be wrong,

‘cause I’m still here

Even when there’s no reason to.

Yes, you’d be very foolish

to think I’m not in love with you.

[lilacenough]

They’re so much more.

[lilacenough]

I was so happy with you, I forgot to check if you were happy too

[lilacenough]

Sirena

¿Por qué meterte en mi mar? Tú, inestable sirena Si iba a ser tan ajena Tu triste forma de amar Ya, fue en tu modo de andar Donde perdiste tu lago Y dime ahora ¿qué hago? Que soy yo la que ha perdido Pues tu mar ya ha crecido Y tu ausencia yo la pago

[lilacenough]

La totona a tu poeta. Asúmala hábil: se oirá su negra némesis ya. La rola, ay, será meta.

Laso lo cela: saeta atea sale colosal. —¿Até mares ya al oral? —¡Ay, sí! Semen argén usa. Río es. —¡Liba! ¡Hala, musa! ¡Ate o, puta, ano total!

J. Darío Bravo 22 de marzo de 2018

Nota: «Totona» y «rola» son venezolanismos. El primero es un término vulgar para designar a la vagina. El segundo, una porra o tronco grande.

[lilacenough]

I like to think I put complex feelings into silly rhymes. Though they might just be silly feelings written down. 

[lilacenough]

Décima hacía esa otra persona que vive dentro de mi

Disfruto llorar frente al espejo,

pensando en nuevas maneras de entristecerme.

Y al ver mis lágrimas descenderme,

me regaño y me aconsejo.

Me digo las cosas que debí haber hecho,

Me pienso las cosas que hice mal

Desentierro lo enterrado en mi pecho

de manera física y verbal

Y aún así y con tanto despecho,

mañana todo será igual.

[lilacenough]

Go ahead, baby. Burn the tip of my tongue.

Make me forget all the bad things I’ve done.

Go ahead, baby. Rip the skin off my lips.

Help me ignore all the good things I’ve missed. 

[lilacenough]

Hay días que siento que ya no puedo más...

Esos días me digo que mañana todo va a cambiar. Me grito, me reclamo, me sacudo. Me exijo cambio; y yo, toda quitecita, me escucho. Me doy la razón y me prometo hacer algo. Yo grito un poco más, yo lloro. Yo golpeo, yo recibo el golpe. Yo me quedo afónica, y yo me digo que me calme.

Entonces, después de tanto reclamo, llega la mañana siguiente. Siento los ojos hinchados; me duele la garganta y la cara. Recuerdo el día anterior como un sueño; y siento el pecho ligero. No recuerdo lo prometido, y si lo recuerdo lo ignoro. Siento que hoy puedo un poco más. 

[lilacenough]

Décima reflexiva

¿Por qué gasto energía

y tiempo mío en llorar?

¿Por qué insisto en estar

dónde no encuentro alegría?

¿Qué culpa tengo yo de mis actos?

y, ¿por qué me llueve consecuencia?

si llena ya está mi consciencia

de pensamientos putrefactos.

Qué no daría por quitarme estos zapatos

y caminar en indiferencia.