Cucaracha

Time has fallen silent and the king returned to the origin of existence.

His body did not dissolve because there is a void that cries out for mercy.

There will be no day when you fall with me and I become the man who stops your threats.

I want you to know that it is not too late yet, because I am like fire, but I am also like water that ends up extinguishing the flame that gave you life.

Do not speak to me with mercy. I do not want to be your display of hatred. I also believe in a future. I am what I silence and repress.

Even in these lagoons of death and disdain I am searching for the meaning of existence, and I feel that I am not capable of returning to the past, but I can forgive all my enemies who made me miserable.

I do not want a goodbye. I want your body. I seek help. I want to tell you that I am still alive in its purest state.

Do not sing of victory. Do not sing of the golden ages of your life. Do not be bitter.

I do not want to know whether it is autumn or whether it is summer,

searching for the horizon in the stars, in the trails, in the galaxies that slowly spin and collide with one another, attracting each other until they expand and die alone and silent.

You are the heartbeat of my heart. You are what accompanies me and freezes me.

I am those stones that travel through space-time searching for life on earth.

Do not ignore me. Do not dissolve into time. Do not remain silent. I want no more falsehoods.

Because now I am without smiles, without suffering, and I cannot find your worth in my cradle, in my days of adventure.

We will believe in a goodbye as we believe in a welcome.

Have you seen those seas full of filth where everything was left in vain and in misery?

My life, I am not ready to leave, I am ready to walk away from you in this battle against my own life.

I wouldn’t know how to say if I am happy or if I am unhappy, I wouldn’t know how to say if it’s too late for me again.

Look for me without remedy, without calculating the goodbye and the feeling of emptiness.

You will not hurt me, you will not be able to wound me, because I am already broken into pieces.

And you will only be a trail of black smoke coming out of the chimney of a chifa restaurant.

It is too soon for me to go to hell, but I do not believe in heaven.

So I will remain in limbo.

And if there is no place for me, I will live my days in solitude in this gigantic world of filth.

You will look for me and I will not look for you,

because to me you were always scum and you do not have to say that you were faithful to me.

The middle ground stayed with me.

As I end up dead, I will try to move forward, even if I am already 100 meters underground, at peace with the worms and the putrefied flesh.

A synthesis of what I hate and what lives inside me: an inherent complaint that loses its process.

I dwell in the beyond, in a reciprocal world full of marginality. It is the change I seek to resolve.

Even when I have chosen to remain silent and lie to myself, there is no return.

There is no ecstasy, no association.

Only a mystical percentage that dies and does not bury its longings in time;

Something I hate and admit is that contempt people have when they attack another and believe they are different, that for certain things they tell you how you should act, that you shouldn’t laugh or enjoy the moment.

Bitter people who live in misery and don’t see what matters, don’t see the affected young person. Besides, there is a human being, a sufferer, who deep down is not so transparent and it hurts to live as the days go by, and they say to themselves, educated people? What bullshit, what a fallacy.

I can love, I can hate, but I simply want to live, I want to inhabit that piece of bread that is mine and my own, my solitary path where I don’t have to tell anyone anything, and the opposite.

I am real in my own way and I want to enjoy my sorrows alone, stay a thousand hours in my closet, and if necessary I don’t want to be fucked with, because I already have sorrow but I don’t have peace to spare.

A thousand and one nights are not enough where I see this shit bloom, it disgusts me, I feel like I can’t breathe, this is not me, and it is already a shame to have to have a mental illness and then have to endure insensitive people who don’t awaken grace, only contempt.

Because they don’t understand nor feel like that affected person who lives the day tired and tight, imprisoned.

Because those who believe they can rule through fear, and I am another insensate one whom evil affects daily, I am a bit sensitive and I don’t want to cause harm.

Because deep down I am someone kind and soft, I don’t harden myself, because I want to treat everyone as if they were my brothers, but I am selective and that’s why I only stay with those who are worth it and deserve recognition of glory and struggle.

At least when I write I strip away the evil that my mind abhors, and when I am finally present in my house, calm, on my PC playing Half-Life or Counter-Strike, I feel blessed to be in my place, without disciplines.

I am wishing it isn’t too late, but tomorrow the resentment you left on my face may be waiting for me.

I have not forgotten your hatred.

When we were one and you came and I went.

Together in bed. Together without interruptions.

But I doubted you, so now I see the wrong side, I look at myself and there is only pain.

You are something I would not wish to have, but I loved you like a madman and no one loved me.

You are… that which I recognize, that exhausts me, but that I love,

always you being the same, and I the idiot, who sees you from afar.

Be happy.

I love you.

Would I do it again? Maybe…

only this time I would kill myself and leave nothing behind.

The stimulus is provoked; longing rests on the lips of virtue, and judgment has no words. I have found a truth that will not let me look back, even if for now it is only a vague feeling. And you wonder: am I human? Or am I merely a tide that brushes the shore? I don’t believe I can hold myself together.

I have not wandered countless times toward the end of the road and returned to understand a reason— one that kills and burns until life ends, leaving me stunned, wondering why? What hunger for power do you hold against me? Why do you flee the shadow and crawl through silence and the fear that disembowels your desire?

Fear—my fears—found me, and I failed, and I cried. I inhabited your desire; will you stop marking me, or will you simply abandon me? The echoes touch my voice—why can’t I stop insisting?

In this escape that has only left me empty, the time to change will come. But while I find that substitute, I will dwell in the sand; I will hide and emerge when everything is clear.

There is no time to return. There is time for the breeze that ruminates with me. I will not be able to find the end. I have not been faithful to myself. I will seek the meaning I do not have now, and I will die—I will believe in myself again.

your burns are visible, I don’t understand your charm, I only think I can’t bear to see you happy.

will you come down from the sky? or will I have to kneel and wait to be incinerated.

your eyes have faded when I spilled pity and death in your name, but it is not in vain, it is distant that I lock myself in and do not ask for help.

because for you I would give my life, even if now I am nothing more than smoke, don’t go far away from me. don’t make me agonize, I don’t want to lose myself while I follow your trail in the snow and I want to feel that feeling that does not leave my heart.

"Blank Canvas"

The moon eclipses, time dies, and I fade away. You killed my time, and I died upon seeing that it was true. Your lips are not the ones that bit me and tore a piece of flesh from me. You spat, but I couldn’t understand you, so I kissed you again, because now I am only a blank canvas and I want you to draw on my face.

Unless you think I am false and a victim of this bitter world, and I think now I am indispensable, even though life cheats me and orders me around every day.

I don’t need your dependence, I need the contact of your skin and to feel you and to know that you are with me.

But it’s not free, it’s an affection I have to pay for even if I have no money.

"The Edge Is Not the Core"

I will let time tremble, I will let things wander.

Even though now I am soft, I will become harder, although the hardness is only the edge, because deep down I feel and I show myself fragile.

I don’t fall back into the same things, but I do fall into the same depth that eats me and leaves me tense and old, without power.

Your body is not perfect, but it is at least a gesture that changes my life, and my storm returns from the sky to the earth.

A lightning bolt that evokes thunder, and they are the same simplistic meaning.

You are that which avoids me, and I see you from a window. I want to believe that I am blind and that I cannot see you.

False. You do not see me.

I will let the past kill me and I will begin again.

"No Permission Required"

I don’t need your permission, nor to be from the depths.

What stupidity are you talking about? Isn’t death and life enough to know that you exist?

You are believing in something you cannot see, but it seems that now I am someone else, even if I see again and believe they are my black lenses.

This is more than makeup, it is the truth.

I wander as if I didn’t know where to go, and it’s true, I’m not always right.

But I will stop being a shell and I will become a hard-boiled egg.

I thought I knew what I felt and I only denied the past in vain, and I knelt down, even though I am reckless.

Truth overwhelms those who live by proxy, and business governs the masses. Are we lost? I don’t think so, but I doubt this won’t become serious.

Power is contagious, and those who live exposed burn in the embers of the intrusive. How much longer can I endure this pressure that thaws me, that steals my breath? How much longer must one resist an unconscious and systematic threat of power?

This is killing me, and I recover my sanity while hearing the screams of terror in the background.

There is neither doubt nor certainty: whoever governs threatens those who live under submission. More power, more insanity.

I don’t want to cover my eyes or believe in the falseness that shatters my skull. It is not too late to beg for mercy, and the insects are so calm that nothing makes sense.

It is human management and consciousness shaking hands. It is the indifference of the strong and the arrogance of the weak. It is the injustice of overpopulation as a valid resource for this massacre.

How long will I keep bleeding, dominated by beings without their own criteria?

I will not abandon the free will the masses gave me, nor punishment nor forgiveness. This nefariousness not only suffocates me: it wounds me slowly.

My identity has been wrapped in outrage and death. How much honor must I lower to suture this wound? I don’t want to stitch it. I want it to rot and turn gangrenous.

It will not be enough for them to cut off my limbs and leave me living in a wheelchair. It will not be enough for it to reach my neck and leave me with only my head and hair.

Coffins sow terror, and peace governs the time of the seconds that martyr life.

I want to dress as a woman. I want to dress as a man.

But I always return to the same depth: your incomprehension. It is the mirror, and my dramatism, and my euphoria.

My concept of feeling vulnerable to the environment and being mocked by the security that was shielding me, guard, is my complex against my nature.

I will let life decide for me. I will let everything lose meaning once again, because I am earthly and I want to be on another planet.

The feeling of a silenced voice makes me stumble, but at the same time I want to go back and recover my original form, for when I can no longer suck nourishment from my body, emaciated by my old habits of believing myself something I am not.

Feeling validated in such a cruel world is my depression and containment against my stance.

I have seen the lake thaw and the somber solitude approach. I was born from fire and marked a glow on my head, a mark inherited by my stupidity.

I don’t have to tell you anything concrete.

Now I want to be the one who controls the world, but the world is blind. In one second, a lion kills a deer and tears its neck apart. In another second, you look at a human being run over and analyzed: the body is torn to pieces and the guts spill out in heaps.

This is not a magazine catalog. It is reality against the raw and serene denial of loving and not being loved.

There is no time for abrupt words, because now I am being carried toward hell. While the voices torment me, I want to guide the stranger, but I achieve nothing.

I feel my chest burn and the wrinkles of my skin marking themselves. Is it too late for me if I always want youth?

It is not possible to live while slowly dying, and there will be nothing to fear if all I want is to leave my mark on the world.

Because even if I remain whole, the manifesto changes direction and I am once again used and dragged toward the axis of evil.

A routine repeats itself and I remain silent when the shadows dominate my mind. In these moments I only want to rest; I do not want to argue, but I do want to rehabilitate myself and find the necessary peace that I must sustain if I do not want to fall into the depths, into the paper death.

I have tried to be someone I am not, but I failed. And when I was at the bottom I found myself and saw what I truly wanted to see: a worm repeating itself, that found the tree and the final segment of its oppression. It is neither wrong nor right, but I do know that now nothing will be the same and that is fine; it is part of me.

Because it was a sacrifice to get here and every sacrifice has a cost. I may not have walked or fought, but I was knocked down. Yet I did fight with my mind, locked up and caged, wandering like a solitary being, finding the contempt that others leave behind.

Now there will be no final destination, only a hole that will quench my thirst. And that thirst will fill my cracked lips that have now dried, and I feel that everything will return. But I doubt that I will drag myself back to the end again.

So I understood that I am not so different from you and that I am an image that detaches itself from the surface. It is not a pity; it is a bad deception that should have fallen in vain for being too mad, an obsessive who believed in God and in vigilance. But my power embodied Satan and I changed places so as not to show myself to the ridiculous and false world. It is not for me; it is because now I will be the one who decides and there will be no more tomorrow without a yesterday.

I do not understand which lines I must follow, but I am close to the path of the end, to completing my mission. And I must face this barrier that slowly drains me, that suffocates me, but I am very aware of it. I have no reason to fear destiny, nor to cry and kneel; everything has been a pity.

The moon has shone, time has stopped, and perhaps my doubts have stopped as well. I am not going to be a superhero; I will be an antihero who fucks up half the world and pretends he did it right. I will have a medal, I will buy a pony, I will ride it, but not like prostitutes in hotels with different mirror angles.

Joy will last me only a short while and today will have been a great day. Beyond that, there is a synthesizer that modulates my voice. I will not speak to you from hatred because I have already changed, although I am still afraid of returning to darkness. If the light shines too brightly, it will blind me and I will end up blind. If I tell you what I think, you will run away from me; that is not a conclusion, it is a statement. I do not need you in my life, I do not need to be your mirror. I am the brightness of tomorrow.

For now, I am only the shadow of the umbrella that drips beneath the sun while a fat man drinks his energy drink. I remain attentive to destiny, but not like a rat trapped in a net of hatred. This time there will be no illusions nor half-words, only a sober and scarce echo of popularity that will marginalize me, and I will understand it.

I do not hate the world, and the world owes me nothing. Today I am a friend to the rodent that eats from my plate of food, I am the brother of the cockroach that insists on climbing onto my table. How late? To stop thinking about oneself. And how early? To wish life upon others who do not stop to think about what it means to live and not to die in a single passage.

una frase.

Your eyes have changed shape, while I cry and feel the delay of time in a single minute.

But I walk slowly toward lucidity, which changes my direction with things that cloud my mind. I lose time in a we, that lets me see the insects, how they eat my body, and I become a nymph in the background: it is a transformation.

I will stop flying while I search for the pollen from one flower to another and manage to be with you, but I do not stop loving you.

I roam the land of the sea like a crab and move closer to the depths to cover myself with this salty thirst.