I AM MY NIGHTMARE MIRROR

     “ Todos os dias quando acordo, não tenho mais o tempo que passou. Não foi fácil, não é fácil.    [...]    Cuidem de vocês, não se diminuam, usufruam do tempo que ainda tem, seja sagrada(o) para você mesmo. Não dá para mudar o passado, mas dá para aprender com ele, extrair o melhor de tudo e aplicar no presente para construir o futuro.”       “Let the whore into your life    Let the bore encounter strife    May the devil cause no quarrel    As I revel in your peril”      and just like that I can say it’s over    look up to you, see you far away    give up all my hope      doesn’t make sense to want you anymore    rather belittle myself    and revel in a place/non-place of mess—       —of city next to you and neighbor    but not the same, as should be     me younger than you, you ol...

   Dog gang comes to us, friendly. Our friend out of breath, asthma attack, desperately digging around the backpack for a bottle of water. They lick our hands asking for pets, the tails moving around frantically. One of them jumps on her, sat at the sidewalk recovering, licks her face. That terrible moment of despairturns heartwarming with the playful spirit of the stray dogs.    We still need to walk a few blocks to get her somewhere more comfortable and, to our surprise, they wouldn’t stay put as we asked or stray away to their business, despite understanding we could not give them anymore attention. So they begin to silently escort us.    There were five dogs in formation around us. The small caramel one stayed back, while the two white ones protected the left and the right. The black one was surely the leader, staying up front, always keeping the chin up and looking straight forward, sometimes over the shoulder to make sure we were still walking — besid...

   Back to school    Meeting an old friend    Though he looks 15 ***    “mirror, mirror on the wall     who’s the fairest of them all?” fucking robotics projects giving me nightmares *** “Tem um sofazão ali. Bora deitar?” *** Daddy’s got an Iron Maiden shirt and a cozy leather jacket Little kid jumping up and down in the rain to the dirty sludge doom playing *** Pissing on the church Spitting on the church Punching on the church Barfing on the church We talk, we do it True religion rockers Fuck your god *** group of schoolgirls eyeing me bet they’re talking about how hot i am *** She had done acid last night and danced like Charlie Brown to Teenage Riot also sucked a lot of dick for five bucks a piece She has huge dark circles under the eyes talking gibberish, fails to give the cop an explanation Awake for days, stealing a grocery store *** Though I don’t show a smile I’m not sad, not necessarily As fine as can be, really You’re not both...

 beautiful man playing the harmonica    Strolling around in the after hours, I decide to sit down at the first comfortable looking porch on sight, to write a letter. Old apartment building, windows all black, has a nice little lamp that turns on as I sit down, like for me only.     “Thank you, little lamp”    Scribbling around at the paper, not really making sense of my words, I begin to notice the distant sound of a harmonica. Figured I was finally getting paranoid, for the sound would become louder and louder, getting closer and closer — soothing, in a way, but also piercing and loud and the most somber. The context of it all also didn’t help: a girl alone in the night; it was a dangerous neighborhood; I was running away from home. But as the source of the sound comes on sight, slurring down the lane, my heart stops shivering.    A beautiful bard he was, lost in the blues like Little Walter, playing to none but himself. Noticed me look...

   Light speed rockets flying to new moons, and in the mean time she’s living a mean time. Not dark, or gray, just red. Kind of too red, maybe. Sacking grocery stores, picking pockets, copping houses. She’s the face of danger sometimes, and most of the time just looks as average as the next person; a disguise, not intentional, but effective.     “(pretty) Little girl got the blues”, thinks the mom to herself, watching her barely touch the food at the dinner table. Little does she know her daughter is the scum of society, punk freak with no boundaries, and wouldn’t hesitate in killing a cat to win a dare.    Twenty years of age——basement a bunker——collects bones dug up from old graves——misanthropic ritual——fueled on hatred——cuts her mouth on the inside so the pain lasts longer——masturbates with a toilet brush——has a date rape planned for tonight with the first male that talks to her at the bar.     “Hey there!, what’s up?” says he, sitting at the t...

     Once I met this girl that never hid her scars. Never wore long sleeves or jackets, and only sometimes pants: skirts and shorts were the regular attire doesn’t matter the weather, along with a black tee of whatever band you’ve never heard of. She never hid her scars because she took them as achievements; they were spoils of a war fought from within that, despite being over, wasn’t necessarily won; or at least wasn’t as much a victory as she made it up to be. Self-harm never stopped being a thing when the weapons were down, and every day a new white spot of bandages would pop up, sometimes one of those big band-aids. Her — only — friend and her family knew very well she was a mistake too hard to fix, and gave up on her, only watching as she went deeper and deeper into an insane rabbit hole of self-satisfaction. She would say, to whoever asked why, that the pain wasn’t to remediate the suffering, but to create a comfortable happy place through raw carnal pleasure. ...

Like Nuit she bends down over me Like Hadit I let myself be kissed   ***    Post-carnage    They suck on my titties like they love me    Oblivious to the blades and the dry blood    Little baby birds    Desperate for attention    Desperate for relief    Together we greet death    Post-mortem of the living    Me scribbling on the gooseflesh ***    Hangover swinging    Swinging at the playground    Throw up on the grass    Mud angels on the wet sandbox    Sopping wet and shivering    Better run before the devil snatches my soul   ***    The remodel affected our bench    Plucked it from the ground    And now all that’s left    Is the thought of our bench    And now I’m sitting on the bench    Not the one that’s in front of your house    For that one...

     Today I bumped shoulders with this girl on the street. She had nothing of muse, nothing ethereal, just a little something here and there of alternative. My eyes were quickly drawn to the turtleneck under a short but beautiful string of pearls. There was also a pair Ray-Ban Caravans laying on top of her head, like the one I had once gifted a dear friend many years ago. Her clothes were all pristine black, and her face carried a kind of smuggish decisiveness not necessarily unlikable, but deeply respectable. Something not even her short stature, or the way she walked wobbly, like a penguin, could take away. In fact, her presence was of a giant’s, and the mere sight of her was enough to take my breath away. That’s why we bumped shoulders; I got lost in her; though none of us seemed to mind.     “Sorry”     “No problem”     “Have a good day”    She smiled then, but more than cordially. She smiled like when you meet an old frie...