madeofcoal

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camaleão

o problema de cresceres sem amor, é que te habituas a recriar-te para que ele te seja entregue. fui ator, mas nunca por gosto. apenas porque me era fácil sê-lo, fi-lo a vida toda. nunca vesti a minha própria pele, até porque acho que nunca tive uma para usar.

habituei-me desde cedo a ser aquilo que precisavam que eu fosse, e fui várias coisas. fui palhaço, atento, fui dedicado, fui rebelde e irreverente, fui rude e agridoce. fui inocente, fui dissimulado, superficial. fui profundo, estóico e crítico. cultural e denso. sempre perdido. sempre desencontrado. sempre dentro, sem nunca pertencer realmente.

sempre a vestir sorrisos que não eram meus, sentimentos que não me pertenciam, teorias que não tinha pensado. criei e geri depressões e maleitas porque a vida me era chata. parca. nunca fui constante, mas fui constantemente uma farsa.

_________

chameleon

the problem with growing up without love is that you get used to recreating yourself so it will be given to you. I was an actor, but never by choice. only because it was easy for me to be one—I’ve done it my whole life. I never wore my own skin, mostly because I don’t think I ever had one to wear.

from an early age, I got used to being what others needed me to be, and I became many things. I was a clown, attentive, I was dedicated, rebellious, and irreverent. I was rude and bittersweet. I was innocent, deceitful, superficial. I was deep, stoic, and critical. cultured and profound. always lost. always out of place. always on the inside, but never truly belonging.

always wearing smiles that weren’t mine, feelings that didn’t belong to me, theories I hadn’t thought of. I created and managed depressions and ailments because life felt dull. scarce. I was never constant, but I was constantly a farce.

- from the emotionally burned out boy 🫶🏼

[madeofcoal]

today I’ve wrote:

“As far as skin goes, and as much as mine craved yours, mine is now melting to the floor, disappearing—leaving only my flesh and bone as proof of your existence within me.”

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drenched in silence

words escape me,

leaving me unable to quiet the silence.

yet, of all the voices i speak with,

the one closest to who i am

insists on staying silent.

of all the languages i master,

the one i yearn for most hides within my mouth,

unspoken, unseen, unheard.

silence has come to stay,

draping me in madness.

in silence, i can hear myself—

me, who only needed to quiet my mind.

and so, i go on,

without speaking a word aloud.

- from the emotionally burned-out boy 🫶🏼

[madeofcoal]

as crianças são terroristas

lembro-me de tamborilar o peito dele com os meus dedos. o corpo nú num quarto abafado. a boca cansada de amar, sedenta por mais. tenho os pés em contradição. parte de mim quer congelar o tempo em que vivo. ficar e existir, poder existir. outra parte de mim quer libertar o corpo, despedir-me dos visitantes, abrir a janela, renovar o ar empestado de sexo e dormir para acordar. acordar e fingir que nada aconteceu, nada fui. nada para além de uma vírgula na história de alguém, cujo nome não faço questão de lembrar.

a dicotomia do ficar ou ir, acabar ou prosseguir, para ou andar, revolve dentro do meu corpo, do meu sangue. nada no exterior denuncia a guerra que tenho em mim.

um corpo nú que se entrelaça num outro. um sexo duro que denuncia a fome de carne, amor, o desejo por paixão. uma mão que tamborila um peito peludo. tudo para marcar o ritmo do que pergunto. um sorriso matreiro que solta perguntas inocentes. todas para auxiliarem na análise que preciso fazer. para quê? hoje entendo que questiono e indago com o intuito de conhecer o âmago do sujeito. a pessoa. de saber quem é. de lhe encontrar e julgar os defeitos para que me seja legítimo fugir. para que seja justificável o abandono. para que me torne fantasma sem culpa.

os meus fantasmas forçam-me a sabotar tudo o que me rodeia para que eu possa fingir que tenho controlo no que faço e no que sou.

o amor quando exposto a doses pequenas e fugazes, permite-nos experimentar mais de diferentes formas.

o amor é uma experiência. resta saber qual o seu resultado.

tamborilei os dedos no seu peito peludo enquanto entenderia se ele quereria ficar. os homens são crianças com medo, que nunca puderam distinguir e entender as suas emoções.

as crianças são terroristas e toda a gente sabe que não é saudável negociar amor. muito menos com terroristas. por isso, brincamos com ele.

- do rapaz emocionalmente esgotado 🫶🏼

_________

children are terrorists

i remember drumming my fingers on his chest.

our naked bodies in a stifling room.

my mouth, tired of loving, still thirsting for more.

my feet caught in contradiction.

part of me wants to freeze this moment, to stay and exist,

to be allowed to exist.

another part of me craves liberation,

to dismiss the visitors, open the window,

renew the air heavy with sex, and sleep until morning.

wake up and pretend none of it happened,

that i was nothing.

nothing but a comma in someone’s story,

a name i don’t care to remember.

the dichotomy of staying or leaving,

ending or continuing, pausing or moving on,

revolves within my body, in my blood.

nothing on the outside reveals the war inside me.

a naked body entwined with another.

a hard desire betrays the hunger for flesh,

for love, for the craving of passion.

a hand drumming on a hairy chest,

all to set the rhythm for the questions i ask.

a sly smile releases innocent questions,

each designed to aid in the analysis i must make.

for what purpose?

today i understand: i question, i probe,

to uncover the core of the other person.

to know who they are.

to find and judge their flaws,

so that leaving feels legitimate.

so that abandonment can be justified,

and i may become a ghost without guilt.

my ghosts compel me to sabotage everything around me,

so i can pretend i have control over what i do and who i am.

love, when experienced in fleeting, small doses,

allows us to explore it in different forms.

love is an experiment; its outcome remains uncertain.

i drummed my fingers on his hairy chest,

trying to decipher if he wanted to stay.

men are frightened children,

never taught to distinguish or understand their emotions.

children are terrorists,

and everyone knows you can’t negotiate love,

least of all with terrorists.

so, we play with it.

[madeofcoal]

Golden Grass Adam Marshall Photography  Prints | Tumblr | Facebook | Flickr

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Asphyxia: A Striking Fusion of Dance and Motion Capture Technology

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It means empty.

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Adam Marshall Photography  Tumblr | Facebook | Flickr

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Ellie Davies, In Between the Trees

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Aspen Grove.

Please click to enlarge.

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