my house is pretty small
and the walls are paper-thin
i can hear my neighbour snore
the steps of the upstairs dog
and i’m sure they all know
it’s my mom who’s always yelling
my room makes a pretty cage
with windows flanked by bars
but it wasn't all like that
when i was little
i'm eight years old
i always sit on the window sill
and let my legs swing through the bars
it's way past my bed time
after looking at the cats
that lie down on the back garden
a lady feeds them every day
i don’t know her
but i love her
as much as i know love
i'm eight years old
and when my legs swing
if my house is small
or if my neighbour is too loud
are things i cannot think of
all i can see is my room
made of the green grass and daisies
the birds leaping branch to branch
the cats dozing in the shade
and i can hear my own voice
in the sound of people walking by
i feel the breeze in my hair
all the cats have a name
and i’m real
i don’t remember when my legs
no longer fitted
i don’t remember if i ever missed it once
i'm too old to live in my back garden
too old to fail to see
after they robbed my little house
there’s twice as many bars
and my child’s legs won’t ever fit
blankets
i have to confess
i’m struggling a bit
trying to find the right metaphor
it’s nothing like a missing limb
or losing your favourite toy
and i shouldn’t be struggling
i’m an expert in the field, you know
a professional player
in the art of missing people
since i don’t think i’ve ever stopped
trying to fill someone’s absence
it may have started with my family
leaping from holiday to holiday
from mess to mess
they still laugh at the image of me
mostly a mist of ugly tears
while clasped to my uncle’s leg
before he entered the car
and left to Madrid
i’ve always been on the other side of the railway
waving to a moving car
waiting for the next time
wondering if
maybe
i would not cry again
other times i simply missed my friend
after a two-week school trip
i longed for the long walks
or the chit-chat during recess
the empty chair of a room we didn’t even share
having to wait while she brushed her teeth
or tied her shoes
and the two-hour calls before going to bed
falling asleep with the phone in my hand
and butterflies on my lips
at least all these feelings made sense
i missed people who loved me well
whose memories of them tuck me in like blankets
but for years i’ve missed
the boy i first kissed
even if it was clumsy, shy, and senseless
even if he told me to die because i rejected him
you see, i didn’t even want to kiss him in the first place
but i was stupid and naïve
and he wanted to kiss me
but i am stupid and naïve
and sometimes dream of him, too
and for months i have longed for
the texts, the calls, the love
of someone i didn’t truly know
i’ve missed the attention i seeked
in somebody who could have been anybody
but it was him
a good boy
who could have been any good boy
but this may be the exception
since i had learned a lesson or two
and for once, my dreams could move on
but at least all these feelings made sense
i missed people who didn’t break me
whose real versions were just misplaced in my mind
why then
would i find myself missing
for the longest of times
the man who did break everything
who closed all the doors i didn’t know i was hiding
whose memories of him tucked me in my bed
and didn’t let me get up
and break free of the sheets he wrapped me in
every time i started building me up
he suddenly appeared
knocking out cold every structure i held dear
shaping it with his warm hands
warm, and shaky, and sometimes terrifying
and even when i knew everything
was flaking off like cheap paint
when i recognised
every gap and breach under his palms
i still missed him
before and after i fell down the gap
i still missed him
and i sometimes miss who i was
before i tried to find metaphors
for this foolish longing
it’s hard to find words for a feeling
that’s so broad and heavy
it carries railways and toothpaste
wet lips and good boys
broken locks and trembling hands
so tender and light
it fuels my naïve self
into sugar-coated memories
of men who passed by
while i was on the other side of the railway
waving to a moving car
waiting for the next time
wondering if
i’m struggling a bit
trying to find the right metaphor
it’s nothing like a missing limb
or losing your favourite toy
and i shouldn’t be struggling
i’m an expert in the field, you know
a professional player
in the art of missing people
since i don’t think i’ve ever stopped
trying to fill someone’s absence
it may have started with my family
leaping from holiday to holiday
from mess to mess
they still laugh at the image of me
mostly a mist of ugly tears
while clasped to my uncle’s leg
before he entered the car
and left to Madrid
i’ve always been on the other side of the railway
waving to a moving car
waiting for the next time
wondering if
maybe
i would not cry again
other times i simply missed my friend
after a two-week school trip
i longed for the long walks
or the chit-chat during recess
the empty chair of a room we didn’t even share
having to wait while she brushed her teeth
or tied her shoes
and the two-hour calls before going to bed
falling asleep with the phone in my hand
and butterflies on my lips
at least all these feelings made sense
i missed people who loved me well
whose memories of them tuck me in like blankets
but for years i’ve missed
the boy i first kissed
even if it was clumsy, shy, and senseless
even if he told me to die because i rejected him
you see, i didn’t even want to kiss him in the first place
but i was stupid and naïve
and he wanted to kiss me
but i am stupid and naïve
and sometimes dream of him, too
and for months i have longed for
the texts, the calls, the love
of someone i didn’t truly know
i’ve missed the attention i seeked
in somebody who could have been anybody
but it was him
a good boy
who could have been any good boy
but this may be the exception
since i had learned a lesson or two
and for once, my dreams could move on
but at least all these feelings made sense
i missed people who didn’t break me
whose real versions were just misplaced in my mind
why then
would i find myself missing
for the longest of times
the man who did break everything
who closed all the doors i didn’t know i was hiding
whose memories of him tucked me in my bed
and didn’t let me get up
and break free of the sheets he wrapped me in
every time i started building me up
he suddenly appeared
knocking out cold every structure i held dear
shaping it with his warm hands
warm, and shaky, and sometimes terrifying
and even when i knew everything
was flaking off like cheap paint
when i recognised
every gap and breach under his palms
i still missed him
before and after i fell down the gap
i still missed him
and i sometimes miss who i was
before i tried to find metaphors
for this foolish longing
it’s hard to find words for a feeling
that’s so broad and heavy
it carries railways and toothpaste
wet lips and good boys
broken locks and trembling hands
so tender and light
it fuels my naïve self
into sugar-coated memories
of men who passed by
while i was on the other side of the railway
waving to a moving car
waiting for the next time
wondering if
maybe
i would not cry again
manos de agua
miro hacia atrás
como si no hubiera nubes
el ahora me empuja
con sus manos de agua
trepa desde el ombligo
se asienta
en el centro del pecho
como una aguja
la hierba me mece
clavándome en el techo
las manos se preguntan
dónde estoy
como si no hubiera nubes
el ahora me empuja
con sus manos de agua
trepa desde el ombligo
se asienta
en el centro del pecho
como una aguja
la hierba me mece
clavándome en el techo
las manos se preguntan
dónde estoy
-
the words slur
the words slur
the words slur
the words slur
the words slur
thewordss lurr
thewordsslrllr
likemusicnotes
the words slur
the words slur
the words slur
the words slur
thewordss lurr
thewordsslrllr
likemusicnotes
never mine
lately i’ve been having the weirdest dreams
well
they’re actually not that weird
they just seem so vivid
so real
it’s hard to wake up and think there’s something else
first
i always see my face
my eyes
my mouth
or at least
i think they’re mine
i think it’s me
and then it’d be the nose
the hair, the hands, the heart
that can’t help but change
into someone else’s
i don’t really know
it seems my defenses
are always off
and open to other’s arms
they don’t know me at all
or who knows?
maybe they do
and they love the look in my face
when it’s full of regret
when it fades away
like the smoke of a cigarette
that it’s never mine
lately i’ve been having the weirdest dreams
well
they’re actually not that weird
they just stick in my head
as they cling me to bed
and i can’t help but feel
i won’t know the person that smiles to the mirror
well
they’re actually not that weird
they just seem so vivid
so real
it’s hard to wake up and think there’s something else
first
i always see my face
my eyes
my mouth
or at least
i think they’re mine
i think it’s me
and then it’d be the nose
the hair, the hands, the heart
that can’t help but change
into someone else’s
i don’t really know
it seems my defenses
are always off
and open to other’s arms
they don’t know me at all
or who knows?
maybe they do
and they love the look in my face
when it’s full of regret
when it fades away
like the smoke of a cigarette
that it’s never mine
lately i’ve been having the weirdest dreams
well
they’re actually not that weird
they just stick in my head
as they cling me to bed
and i can’t help but feel
i won’t know the person that smiles to the mirror
the mirror
it's like wearing a stranger's skin
begging for a little warmth
fading in your foul breath
of course
it's not easy to
see yourself in others' eyes
and fail to grin at the mirror
but you understand, right
it's like standing naked
under your own veil
loneliness, that is
begging for a little warmth
fading in your foul breath
of course
it's not easy to
see yourself in others' eyes
and fail to grin at the mirror
but you understand, right
it's like standing naked
under your own veil
loneliness, that is
vosotras
me cubren los ojos con barro
cae en mis labios cerrados
olvido las manos que cuelgan
son mías las que me sujetan
llega a mi vientre la hiedra
en mi ombligo las ramas se esconden
y cuando se asienta en el cuello
cómo hablar si soy de barro
cómo apartarte si no tengo manos
me gustaría decirme
son vuestras voces
quien me devuelven mi cuerpo
cae en mis labios cerrados
olvido las manos que cuelgan
son mías las que me sujetan
llega a mi vientre la hiedra
en mi ombligo las ramas se esconden
y cuando se asienta en el cuello
cómo hablar si soy de barro
cómo apartarte si no tengo manos
me gustaría decirme
son vuestras voces
quien me devuelven mi cuerpo
purpose
cross that desert
swim that river
reach that moor
please
even if it's only
to let women after you
reach a bit further
swim that river
reach that moor
please
even if it's only
to let women after you
reach a bit further
i wish every year that passed
you grew a year younger
maybe at forty we could drink wine
and laugh at our partners together
at fifty i'd help you move out from college
and yet cry again when you left home
at sixty i'd tell you
you're the best woman i've ever known
at seventy i'd hold you in my arms
and hushed you to sleep
i'd bathe you with parfumes
and smile as you discover
how big the world is
but it would never get to be
a greater love than yours
you grew a year younger
maybe at forty we could drink wine
and laugh at our partners together
at fifty i'd help you move out from college
and yet cry again when you left home
at sixty i'd tell you
you're the best woman i've ever known
at seventy i'd hold you in my arms
and hushed you to sleep
i'd bathe you with parfumes
and smile as you discover
how big the world is
but it would never get to be
a greater love than yours
- mom
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)