#La Llorona Tattoo

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

(Bad, lousy, not good) RENDERS II

Ghost x Riot NSFW

Alex Keller and Farah Karim

Sexy back (Riot)

The touch of your hand

Request: Nora Salter (Infinite Warfare)

Alex Keller for ALEXKELLERCHALLENGE

Request: Soap x Asianf!Reader

Nikolai x Zhar: A Heart Full Of Pity 4

Request: Soap x Black f!Reader

Alex Keller and Farah Karim beach run for ALEXKELLERCHALLENGE

Love in an Elevator

141: someone crashed the jeep and it wasn't me this time

Price playing piano

Riot wearing (only) Ghost's gloves

Price and Heather

Tu mihi mundum clariorem (You make my world brighter)

Request: 141 + König with plus size f!reader

Request: Soap and Latina f!Reader

Request: Ghost and me

Wrong room - Zhar and Riot

Nikolai for the Lastochkas

Petra and Yuri

Nikolai comforting Riot

Campfire kisses (@rileyslibrary fanart)

Request: Tango (Mini MacTavish and Nikolai)

Hospital stay

Jazz club (@sofasoap fanart)

Request: From Eden (@blingblong55 fanart)

Ghost helps Riot decorate the Christmas tree at the base. (@rileyslibrary collab)

OC Reference Sheet: On duty outfit and gear

OC Reference Sheet: Sportswear, swimwear, sleepwear, underwear, lingerie

OC Reference Sheet: Civilian attire, informal and formal

Eyecandy: Makarov

Alejandro Vargas and Rudy Parra

Kapano Vang and Phayvahn 'Nak' Sotsvahn

Mistletoe mancandy series masterlist

Mistletoe mancandy edits per request

Ghost x Riot

OC Reference sheet: facial scar, back tattoo

Ballerina

Request: Rudy x Mini MacTavish

Konig facecanon

141+Riot stupid ads

Lastochkas Christmas

Christmas dinner

New Years Eve

New Years Morning

Bikers

London friend date

Wolf-7 and Watcher-1

La Llorona

Frisky frisky

König backcanon (lol) + facecanon

Sorrow

Lastochka Squad

Nak and Riot at the beach

Golden Days of Winter: Riot and Nikolai

Fanart of Darker Matters (@nrdmssgs) - Ghost and Zhar

Failed Cowbow AU wip

Thirst pic from Riot

Hospital stay

Training I

Training II

Awkward idiots

Coffee date (with friends)

Riot and Mini

Mini, Soap and Riot

Florence 'Florrie' MacAlistair

Stupid sexy Makarov

Videocall with Soap

What is love? (Valentines special)

Petra and Riot

Corporal Edouard 'Grizzly' Petit

Grizzly x Florrie

Pregnancy

Lastochka Squad: geared up

Girls' night out

Gabi and Riot: Cartagena

Alex Keller

Vargas-Garza family

Graves and Riot (no chemistry)

Flashback: Young!PricexYoung!Heather

Men in suits

Sunshine

Ghost with dog

Sexy Keegan

Syd, Nak and Iskra

Riot, Nak and Zhar

Scar closeup

[impeccablenest68]

La Llorona Tattoo Meaning: A Deep Dive into the Symbolism and Significance - Impeccable Nest

In addition to representing the possibility of redemption, the La Llorona tattoo can also symbolize the desire to find peace and closure after a traumatic event. Just as the weeping woman seeks solace and comfort for her pain, those who bear her image may be seeking healing and closure from their own emotional wounds. The tattoo can serve as a powerful reminder that, like La Llorona, they too can find a path to peace and acceptance. Overall, the legend of La Llorona is a complex and deeply emotional story that speaks to the human experience of love, loss, and regret. While the tale is often seen as a cautionary warning against the dangers of jealousy and obsession, it also offers a message of hope and forgiveness for those who seek it. For those who choose to get the La Llorona tattoo, it serves as a tangible reminder of this message, and a symbol of the power of redemptio - qjg0l9x2tr

https://myspace.com/impeccablenest68/post/activity_profile_39395596_bccc6c4db72e44c49706ded368b1369c/comments

[hostess-of-horror]

Thinking about other projects to do other than Sam and Max's Horror Show.

I'm gonna have to put that project on pause (yet again, so terribly sorry) because I'm just really stumped on how I'm going to present this upcoming episode. But have no fear! Sam and Max's Horror Show is not cancelled - just on a bit of a hiatus!

As for the other ideas, I've been recently drawing Snatcher from A Hat in Time and have apparently fallen into the realm of self shipping.

Yes... I do ship M.B. (myself) with the soul-stealing, contract-making shadow noodle. Thanks to @tiramegtoons and @darkmedolie, I have officially accepted my fate.

While that's happening, I've also been recently asked from a good family friend to do a drawing from her. She's a wonderful lady who does piercings for a living at my uncle's tattoo shop and she had been collecting a bunch of artwork from female artists. I showed her my artwork (including Sam and Max's Horror Show) and she loved so much that she wants my art as part of her collection!

I want to do something "original" this time and not something that purely fan art or inspired by cartoons/movies. So I decided to do an art piece on historical folklore, specifically the popular Mexican ghost story: La Llorona.

Stay Tuned, my lovely little monsters!

[araniaart]

I had an utter BLAST at La Llorona’s Upside Down event in San Antonio Last night! I did a (mostly) closet cosplay of Vampire!Eddie - which was a hell of a lot of fun, and was happy to run into several other people cosplaying (including another person doing a nod to the Kas!Eddie theory with red contacts and a wicked costume) - and a Chrissy with white-out contacts and blood down her face.  I got to meet Gabriella Pizzolo (Suzy’s actress) -  who was incredibly sweet and personable - it was such a treat to meet!  Thanks so much for the super nice compliments on my cosplay and new tattoo - I hope you had a good time! ( and thanks for the RL tech genius help getting my phone’s flash to work lol ) Other awesome things: over 50 local artists who each had at least some Stranger Things themed art pieces/stickers/mugs/cookies/prints/etc etc etc! I GOT MY EDDIE BATS TATTOO!  They were doing live tattooing at the event with a ST inspired flash page, but I got a hold of one of the artists in advance and was able to get him the linework for Eddie’s Bats tattoo: Thanks so much to https://www.instagram.com/jayortiz.tattoos/ for the wicked inkwork! PLUS: Live music (a ROCKING group called Whisky Bliss who did a FULL performance of Master of Puppets and a rock version of Running up that hill and KILLED IT), photo ops with big props including VECNA!

[comrade-shrimp]

Spare white glove society hc's? *shakes tin can*

Yes ofc my sweet children,

I am here to feed u

I don't know if this is just me, but I've always imagined the sawneys as more of a cult than a "tribe". And when House brought them into the strip, he changed their name to the wgs and also claimed they were a "tribe" instead of a cult. It just looks better on a resume

Theres a hierarchy in the WGS, it's shaped like a pyramid and it goes: Top person, Marjorie and Mortimer, Family, Workers, New Members at the bottom

I also hc there are different styles of masks for each layer of the pyramid, the top person has the most delicately crafted and most elegant mask, while new members are given shitty masks until they can move up to workers

More regarding the Sawneys, in canon they lived in an underground cavern, so I hc they were a bit of a legend in the Mojave. Parents would use them like how they do La Llorona today, "if you're out too late, the sawneys are gonna kidnap you and eat you"

Also re: living in a cavern, I hc they had people go out into the world and bring people back, much like how the legion has its frumentarii or how the BoS has Veronica and other members that go out for food.

A good most of the time, if you receive any food from the Ultra Luxe, chances are it's not human meat. They're trying to bring cannibalism back to the White Glove Society and not society as a whole

House has purposefully blocked the entrance to the underground cavern, if you were to enter it you'd see wall drawings of gruesome scenes, evidence of cult activity, human bones, etc. So he decided to hide all that from the wasteland

The ultra luxe is the worst casino to stay at by yourself, they kidnap people who are alone (this might be canon but I don't remember)

The ultra luxe also has passageways, false mirrors, and hollow walls, so you could be watched from inside your own room

Nobodys ever seen the leader of the WGS as they keep to themself in a closed off part of the casino, most members assume they're just sensitive to light, seeing as how they never really left the cavern

(Reminder this is a HC) most members wear masks around the casino because their faces are scarred from participating in rituals during the time of the Sawneys and they have to hide them(you know how like people in prison get tear drop tattoos after killing someone, it's like that but they get their "tattoos" after successfully participating in rituals or accomplishing other things for the cult)

If I can remember more I'll just rb this post and add onto it akfhsjjf

[assyer]

Writer’s Month 2020 Masterpost

When did september appear and what gave it the right???

@writersmonth

I did my best, and honestly was so much more than i imagined

Prompts filled

( rip to 21, 22, 23, 26 and 31 )

1) Tattoo artist/ flower shop AU- the tattoo artist/flower shop fic we all deserve

2) Quarantine- when life infects you with a truth telling drug, make your friend discuss feelings (and then blame it all on the dope)

3) Magic- Make a wish to save a system!

4) Long distance relationship- I've got my love to keep me warm

5) Soulmates- hold tight to those you love (not for fear of their loss, but for love of their presence)

6) Ocean- of love and razor blades your blood is surging

7) Hurt/Comfort- no matter what you do it won't go away

8) Eight- Eight things Ivy remembers from before

9) Illness- siempre fue asi nuestra historia

10) Bunnies- octokittens on the loose what crimes will they commit

11) Light- Carpe Natem

12) Meet cute- so early in the morning

13) Music- Music

14) Metamorphosis- Metamorphosis

15) Coffe shop AU- The (very short) coffee shop AU we all deserve

16) History- No one expected them

17) Cooking- our book is written by our company of friends

18) Myths- La Llorona

19) Deaging- sing me to sleep

20) Loss- a nice moment

24) True love kiss- dream on, but don't imagine they will all come true

25) Drop- i come from the small world of new texas

27) Dream- Two years and counting

28) Fantasy- three questions

29) High School AU- what are you here for?

30) Joy- when did the toy soldier get in?

[anxiously-unsatisfied-world]

Sanders Sides Masterpost

This is a list of all of my Sanders Sides stories I’ve ever written sorted by platonic/romantic. The format is title-pairing-summary. Hope you enjoy!

Platonic:

Loneliness - Logicality - Logan’s feeling a bit lonely. Patton helps.

Moments - LAMP - A few moments cause the sides to realize just how much they care for each other.

Burned Out - LAMP - Roman is experiencing a creative burnout. The others help cheer him up.

Soft Comfort - Moxiety - Virgil’s parents are fighting (again) and he needs an escape. Patton willingly provides one.

Autumnal Decorations - LAMP - The sides decorate the mindscape for autumn/Halloween.

What Was That? - No real pairing - Virgil hears a spooky noise. Turns out he’s not the only one.

Where’s the Crofters?? - Platonic Anxceit/Platonic Analogical - Virgil takes the Crofters to get revenge on Logan. Logan tries to solve the mystery.

Trick-Or-Treating - It’s technically Pre-Logince but Platonic Prinxiety & Platonic Logicality - Patton and Virgil go trick-or-treating with their dads.

Christmas Season Debate - LAMP (w/ focus on Logicality & Logince) - Patton and Logan discuss when exactly the Christmas season starts.

Friendsmas Party - No real pairing - Roman throws a Friendsmas party (with bonus karaoke)

Exchanging Presents - No real pairing - The six of them (w/ Remy & Deceit) exchange their Secret Santa presents.

Cuddle Pile Heaven - Platonic DLAMP (kinda pre-romantic) - Deceit’s having trouble sleeping so he goes to cuddle the other sides.

Overwhelmed - Platonic Logicality - Sequel to Loneliness - Patton is feeling overwhelmed. Logan helps.

Frustration - Platonic Logince - Same Series as Loneliness & Overwhelmed - Roman’s having a creative block & Logan helps 

Romantic:

Pet Names - Logince - Roman flusters Logan with cute pet names.

Playing the Villain - Prinxiety - Roman and Virgil play heroes vs. villains. Roman has some doubts.

Llorona - Royality - Roman sings La Llorona to Patton and explains the lyrics to him.

The Sun to My Moon - Logince w/ background Moxiety - a product of watching too many Disney proposal videos

Soothing Strings - Prinxiety - Virgil can play the violin. This is how Roman finds out.

Loving Looks - Prinxiety - “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The Pampered Prince - Royality - Patton wants to treat Roman like the prince he is.

A French-Filled Date Night - LAMP - Logan plans a date for them. He speaks a lot of French.

Anxiety Performs - Analogical - Logan comforts Virgil before his first performance.

Playing in the Leaves - LAMP - They play in the leaves (tickle warning)

Halloween Hayride - Logince & Moxiety - The four go on a hayride full of festive decorations.

Costume Uncertainty - LAMP - Virgil gets a little insecure about his costume right before they’re about to leave for a costume party.

Pumpkins and Sunsets - Analogical & Royality - They carve pumpkins outside and then watch the sunset, all wrapped up in warm sweaters.

Afternoon of Apple-Picking - LAMP - The boys go apple picking and Virgil worries as usual.

Afternoon of Baking - LAMP - They take the apples they picked and bake several kinds of treats with them.

Fall Extravaganza - Logicality & Prinxiety - At a local fall festival Patton and Virgil make some crafts while Logan and Roman play some games for prizes.

Halloween Candy - LAMP - They go shopping for Halloween candy for the trick-or-treaters. You can probably guess what happens next.

Hocus Pocus Maze - Logince & Moxiety - They go to a corn maze themed to the movie Hocus Pocus.

Pumpkin Spice Promises - LAMP - Roman and Logan go to Starbucks to get coffee.

Friday the 13th? - LAMP - Roman’s had a bad day. Is it because of Friday the 13th or just bad luck?

Fall Pranks - Prinxiety - Roman wakes Virgil with a prank. Virgil gets him back.

Disney Couples Costumes - Analogical & Royality - They’re wearing couples costumes for a costume party.

Not-So-Spooky Movie Night - LAMP - They have a movie night to watch Horror Movies, but plans change.

Monster Boyfriends - LAMP - Roman gets home and they start working on dinner.

The Haunted House - Logince & Moxiety - They go to a haunted house.

Spooky Carnival - LAMP - They go to a Halloween carnival.

Rainy Sleepiness - Prinxiety - Rain is very relaxing.

Graveyard Photoshoot - LAMP - A graveyard isn’t the most orthodox location for a photoshoot. But it works.

Walk in the Dark - Logicality - Patton walks back home late at night after watching horror movies.

Telling Ghost Stories - Analogical & Royality - Patton gets the idea that they should spend an evening telling ghost stories.

A Ghost Hunt - LAMP - They go hunting for ghosts. Logan is skeptical.

Comforting a Snake - DLAMP - Deceit (Lyle) has a nightmare. His boyfriends comfort him. 

Horror Movie Night - Logince & Moxiety - Roman and Virgil play horror games. Their boyfriends comfort them.

A Picnic Gone Awry - Prinxiety - Roman sets up a picnic for his boyfriend. However, a certain Dragon Witch gets in the way.

Disney Villain Surprise - LAMP - They go to Disney for Mickey’s Not-So-Scary Halloween Party. But something’s not quite right.

Angelic Vision - Moxiety w/ Background Logince - Virgil’s a regular at the cafe Patton works at and Patton happens to be crushing on him.

A Snow Day to Remember - Analogical & Royality - The four get a day off school due to the snow - much fun is had.

Holiday Movie Night - Logince, Sleepxiety, Moceit - The family has their first movie night of the holiday season.

Decorating Day - LAMP - It’s their first time decorating the mindscape for Christmas since they started dating.

Abundance of Mistletoe - Logicality & Prinxiety - The mindscape is covered in mistletoe, which can actually be pretty helpful.

Christmas Baking - LAMP - The title - they bake treats for Christmas

Snow-Caused Sickness - Analogical & Royality - Virgil & Roman end up sick after the snow day - Logan & Patton care for them.

Requited Love - Analogical - fake relationship for the holidays prompt

Snowed In With Good Friends - Logince & Moxiety - Logan and Roman get snowed in at Patton and Virgil’s house.

Give it a Chance - LAMP - Logan’s never seen snow before. Patton convinces him to give it a chance.

Time to Recharge - LAMP - Logan’s been stressed out recently. His boyfriends help.

A Perfect Day - Moxiety - Patton wants to pamper Virgil on Valentine’s Day but it doesn’t quite go to plan.

Patton’s Plans for Valentine’s - Royality & background qpp Analogical -- Usually, Roman goes all out for Valentine’s but he’s busy. Therefore, it’s Patton’s turn.

Untitled Kiss Prompt - Prinxiety - Roman gets insecure and Virgil helps out.

Untitled Kiss Prompt - Logince - Roman takes Logan stargazing.

A Disney Adventure - LAMP - The others find out a secret Roman’s been keeping, leading to a bunch of Disney marathons.

White Carnations - Logicality - Soulmate AU

Take a Break, Lo - Logicality - Short prompt fill

Not Quite Okay - Royality - Patton is sick and still trying to do his usual chores. Roman reminds him to relax. 

Missing Hoodie - Anxceit - Virgil’s hoodie goes missing, but he knows who has it.

Incredibly Lucky - Losleep - Logan and Remy are stargazing and Remy thinks about how lucky he is.

A Coffee For Here (So I Don’t Have to Leave Yet) - Sleepxiety w/ Background Roloceit - Coffee Shop / Tattoo Shop AU - Virgil’s the barista, Remy’s the tattoo artist.

Please Hug Me - Prinxiety - Roman goes to Virgil for comfort after Putting Others First

Wooing a Snake (Who Thinks We Love Someone Else) - Anaroyaliceit - Janus overhears Roman, Virgil, and Patton talking about their mutual crush and assumes they’re talking about Logan. 

Multi-chaptered:

The Heart’s Home: Main Four Sides / Other Characters; Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5,  Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8 - Patton gets adopted by Logan and Roman

It Takes Two to Tango: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Epilogue - Prinxiety dance/time travel au

Headcanons/Imagines:

Logince cuddling

Logan knowing French + Latin

Royality affection ficlet thing

Analogical ficlet

[thetwstwildcard]

Can we have more feels between Catrina and Emiliano? Or any mafia au headcanons?

Oh dear, well I teared up while writing these so per usual, gonna be under the cut. 

First will be normal,  then the mafia (more violent)

TW: Abuse, assault, manipulation, attempted murder, murder

Normal

- Catrina has faint scars on her arms and her hand (ring finger) since even after the divorce she could still “feel” the ring on her finger and it made her sick (clawed it). While for her arms, during parties if Catrina didn’t smile Emiliano would dig his nails into her arm (then force her to stay by his side to hide it). The scars on her arms are mostly covered by the sleeves of her dress

- Since Catrina was monotone for most of their marriage when they were alone, he would purposely get her drunk to have more “fun” with her

- Emiliano often leaves Catrina in tears when he corners her alone at NRC, but is the perfect gentleman if they cross each other in public, still calling her his wife

- He feigned sadness at the lost of their child to get Catrina close to him again

- He purposely goes to talk to her children, in an attempt to get close to her again. He wants to get back together, not because he loves her but because SHE decided to leave him. Not the other way. 

Mafia (more violent)

- Emiliano would take his anger out on Catrina in various ways (most of where her tattoos are were to cover scars)

- Catrina has a cigarette burn on her ring finger

- Their “family” called Catrina “La Llorona” because they often heard her cries from their room (now it has a different meaning) 

- Emiliano would break bones of hers then force her to do stuff for him and laugh when she couldn’t or get madder at her

- He forced Catrina to watch as he killed her brother (who betrayed the family)

- Catrina did finally escape the family before Emiliano caught her and basically left her out to die (beat her)

- Someone did save her, and when she finally got back her strength she went back to the house in the middle of the night and murdered Emiliano (stabbed to death)

- The family walked in to see Catrina with tears in her blank eyes, covered in blood next to his corpse

- After that, she took over the family

[soundofseventeen]

Bee’s (soundofseventeen) Recs

Hi, here are my recs! They’re mostly Erin’s but I do have a few that I’m kinda proud of.

Tell Me (Seungcheol): I love anything that involves a character not telling their friends, family, s/o or really anyone about the struggles they go through and Erin really hits the nail on the head here.

Take This to Heart (Seungcheol): This song is really special to me and Cheol is  really special to me. What better way to combine the two than this?

Call Call Call (Jeonghan): I don’t know why I love this one, but it’s really sweet and dorky and telemarketer part just gets me every time.

Everything You Are (Jeonghan): Originally I hated this one when I wrote it just bc I was angry and I didn’t wanna post it just bc it’s not a happy one. It’s on my list now bc you can grow from something that feels like the end of the world and you can come out on top, and sometimes we have to remember that our idols are human.

Three’s a Crowd (Jeonghan): I love how Erin managed to keep the core friendship platonic while adding the third person...who also happens to be the other best friend. 

Kiss Me Slowly: (Jeonghan): At the end of the day, I love the thin line of friends to more and when to cross it.

I can’t believe Erin’s really gonna make me say this and I can’t believe I am too. The deception. All the Joshua fics have been my favorite bc they’re either so sweet and fluffy and domestic and leave you happy for the rest of the day or they just kinda shatter your heart. It’s fine though.

Hold This (Junhui): It’s super lame and it’s so dorky and it’s the sweetest thing ever. I can never stop smiling like an idiot whenever I reread it.

Kissing in Cars (Junhui): I can’t really explain this one, but I hold it dearly in my heart. This song from Pierce the Veil just makes me feel everything and this boy makes me feel everything. If there’s any fic I’d want y’all to read, it’s this one.

My Fairy Tale (Junhui): The friends to lovers; the bittersweet feelings; the last sentence that ties it together; I just love everything.

Carnival (Junhui): The secretly dating thing gets me every time, especially when they get caught and it’s just very fall-y.

Midnight (Junhui): The whole pining thing in a fic is very underrated, especially when everyone knows someone has to confess but they don’y. I love the realism and how you just wanna yell at the screen and writer to make them come together. 

Come Back (Junhui): ANGST my dudes!!!! I live for things like this!!!! I love that sometimes not everything we write has to be sickly sweet and happy. I WANT TO FEEL THINGS. I WANNA CRY UGLY TEARS and then cheer at the happy ending. 

7 Things (Soonyoung): I think that as a writer, one of my favorite things that I’ve done was give readers hope, only to just take it away it and this one did it justice. Erin and Haley haven’t forgiven me for this one but I did warn everyone. 

Make You Smile (Soonyoung): I’m a nerd at heart and if anything has pens, paper, a notebook, books as the key thing in a fic (along with coffee shops), I’m a goner. And it’s so sappy!!!! You can hear my heart crying!!!!

Firsts (Soonyoung): I’m very bad with feelings and this just made me happy for some reason.

Can I have This Dance? (Soonyoung): I loved this a lot more than I thought I would to be honest. Erin just has a simplistic happy way of writing and I know that everything will be alright.  

Movies (Wonwoo): A Halloween-ish type special from Erin that is hysterical to me for some reason. (Bonus points for the gif she uses!)

Favorite (Wonwoo): Small moments leading up to the big finale? My heart does a thing still!

Terrible Things (Wonwoo): This one I was really wanted to do bc it was a story begging to be told and Erin liked this too???

Speak Now (Wonwoo): You know when you read a book that completely shatters your heart but you go back and reread in hopes it ends differently? This is it. I will never forgive Erin for this one bc she came out with this one around the time I dropped the fact that Wonwoo wasn’t my main bias anymore and -ouch. This is probably my favorite one she’s done.

Someday (Wonwoo): Let me just say...friends to lovers...my absolute poison.

My Life Would Suck Without You (Jihoon): I always pictured Jihoon falling in love with someone he’s known for years and the outcome for this made me happy?

Home (Jihoon): This one I wrote in a couple of days after hearing Home and it wasn’t too shabby, I guess.

First Night (Jihoon): The ending made my heart go whoosh honestly.

Cafe Crush (Seokmin): The way to my heart is giving me a coffee shop setting and this just made me uwu

Fake Date (Seokmin): I don’t know why I adore this one, but I do! It’s so cute and funny and I meant this to happen irl

First Sight (Seokmin): The angst! The hope! The little thing you’re relying on to make it end on good terms only to just...fall apart at the seams.

When I Grow Up/ 1.5 (Seokmin): Truthfully, I don’t know why I wrote this one, but it made me really happy and I’m just a hopeless romantic at the end of the day and apparently everyone loved it so everybody wins. Plus I know it made Erin really happy and that made me even happier. (And it’s one of my favorite seventeen songs which shocks people for some reason?)

All the Mingyu ones, lmao. Everything that’s been written about Mingyu, I’ve loved.

Night and Rain (Minghao): I was inspired to start writing for these boys when I heard this song and this was the outcome. This is my firstborn, and I still listen to this song a lot.

Muffins (Mingaho): Another dorky one that just has me :D

Cheated (Minghao): Again, I won’t always write happy stuff and this was another one that just made me happy to write.

Tattoo (Minghao): I’m really sentimental about this one. Like I love it a whole lot?

Photo Credit (Seungkwan): This is probably the most original piece I’ve ever read and I still laugh about this!!!!! 

Temporary Goodbye (Seungkwan:) The bittersweet moment of last days is just something that hurts. You want more time but there’s always hope for next time and that’s what gets you through the times.

You Had Me at Hello (Seungkwan): I just started writing this one, but pen pals y’all. :( Letters, and rambling and talking to each other is just beautiful. Trust me, it’s a special kind of friendship. 

8:43 (Hansol): I don’t know why but I love reading about the flashbacks and present times. Erin’s a genius y’all.

Just the Way You Are (Hansol): Literally the time I was fighting Haley to admit her love for Vernon, I was listening to Pierce the Veil’s cover of this song (and I was going through it bc I adore this band and their music!) and I realized that this would make a good fic...although she does hate me for this one!

Lost Woods (Hansol): Mutual feelings? Sign me up. And honestly, the “No one called him Hansol anymore (or something along those lines is the sole reason it’s up there lmao)

How Would You Feel? (Hansol): Yeah, yeah...I’m just a big softie and apparently I can do cute shit like this (I’m really happy with how it came out though and I didn’t expect everyone to like it?)

Birthday Treats (Chan): I hate my birthday too, but I suppose I’d make an exception for him :(

Ice Cream (Chan): Erin and I unintentionally collaborated on this bc she said it was too short and she let me add on to it so it’s special bc we haven’t done anything since the Princess series.

Locked In (Chan): the thought of being locked in the same room with the person im crushing on is equal parts scary and exhilarating...aka my guilty pleasures!!!!

You First (Chan): I just...love break ups and make ups and the whole “let’s try it again” thing

Thirteen Ways I Said I Love You (OT13): They’re short and sweet and it’s postcards

Friends to More (OT13): FRIENDS. TO. LOVERS. NEED. I. SAY. MORE.

Hogwarts Seventeen: Erin and I talk a lot about AUs and Harry Potter so this made me GEEK

Once Upon a Time (OT13): I wouldn’t stop bugging Erin about my theories and I just...she doesn’t disappoint!

Serial Killers (OT13): Y’all I love shit like this; the creepy and scary and just wow 

Funhouse/ Thriller/  La Llorona (OT13): Funhouse was my first attempt at haunted houses; Thriller for scariness and La Llorona for the urban legend and dia de muertos!!!

[fruk-choosing-a-username]

Little vocaloid tattoo flash thingys (I totally didn’t forget the e in Hyperdontia it’s definitely supposed to look like that)

Songs:

Professor Genki’s Spooky Game of Super Ethical Fun and Murder- written by Meta, feat Dex Remote Control- written by Kalfina-P, feat Oliver and Fukase Echo- written by ToiletPaper (atleast my favorite version of it), feat Gumi Amygdala’s Ragdoll- written by GHOST, feat Oliver La Llorona- written by Steampianist, feat Gumi, Maika, and Oliver Hyperdontia- written by GHOST, feat Flower

[crawlrnews]

Story of Medusa tattoo

The story of Medusa is a Greek mythological tale about a beautiful woman who was transformed into a monstrous creature with snakes for hair. According to the myth, Medusa was once a priestess of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, but she was punished by the goddess for having an affair with Poseidon, the god of the sea, in Athena’s temple. As punishment, Athena transformed Medusa’s hair into snakes and made her face so terrifying that anyone who looked at it would turn to stone. Medusa was eventually killed by the hero Perseus, who used a mirrored shield to avoid looking directly at her and beheaded her with a sword. The story of Medusa has been a popular subject for tattoos, often depicted as a fierce and powerful woman with snakes for hair.

[elenasouthside]

HOLY SHIT IS THAT [ DANNA PAOLA ]?! Oh, wait it’s just [ ELENA SUÁREZ ]. Damn, [ SHE ] looks good for [ 23 ], good thing that they’re [ BISEXUAL ], I might have a chance. I hear that they call them the [ PROM QUEEN ] of the [ SOUTH SIDE ]. I guess that’s because they’re [ LOYAL ] and [ AMBITIOUS ]. But I don’t think a lot of people know that they’re also [ QUICK-TEMPERED ] and [ VENGEFUL ]. Can’t wait to see what kind of trouble [ TEA/25+/EST ] will bring. 

01.  BASICS

Full Name: Elena Estrada Suárez

Nickname: Ella was a common one growing up, especially by her siblings, but she isn’t the biggest fan. Aside from that, she’s had plenty of not so pleasant nicknames in the past.

Sex/Gender: Cisgender Female

Birthday: July 28th

Age: 23

Astrological Sign: Leo

Occupation: She works at The Secret Garden and the Twilight Drive-In

Spoken Languages: Spanish, English

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Birthplace: Casa Grande, Arizona

Relationship status: Single

02. PHYSICAL TRAITS

Hair Color/Style: Her hair is usually in bouncy curls or waves transitioning from dark brown to blonde. But occasionally she does straighten her hair.

Eye Color: Dark Brown

Face Claim: Danna Paola

Height: 5′3

Weight: 110 lbs

Tattoos: None

Piercings: Both earlobes are pierced

Unique Attributes: N/A

Defining Gestures/Movements: She drums her nails often

Posture: Very good

03. PERSONALITY TRAITS

Pet Peeves: People that chew with their moves open, interruptions 

Hobbies/Interests: Shopping and painting are her main ones

Special Skills/Abilities: She can make any piece of clothing look good

Likes: Shopping, painting, music, the Elites, acting, sewing

Dislikes: Working, most of the Southside (not the people, just the area itself), gangs

Insecurities: Her money status is a big one

Quirks/Eccentricities: She bites her lip

Strengths: Driven, clever, loyal, persistent

Weaknesses:Perfectionist, stubborn, devious, bossy

Speaking Style: Very casual but smart, sounds like she knows what she’s talking about all of the time

Temperament: Quick to change, if you get on her bad side, she will make you regret it and still act like she loves you

04. FAMILY & HOME

Immediate Family: Maria Montiel (Mother), Arturo Suárez (Father), Luis Suárez (Older brother), Josefina Suárez (Younger sister), Ricardo Montiel (Younger half-brother)

How do they feel about their family? She’s very close to her brother Ricardo, there’s a 10 year age difference between them but she looks after him a lot and he’s one of the few people that see her softer side. She’s the most distant with her father and her brother Luis, but she does still care for everyone in her family.

How does their family feel about them? Ricardo idolizes Elena, she’s a great older sister to him and she tries to set a good example. Maria cares about her a lot and is thankful for what she does to help out the family. Josefina enjoys talking to her over the phone and seeing her on the rare vacation but they don’t have too much in common now. The rest of family cares about her, Luis has seen her “Queen Bee” side and that’s part of why they aren’t as close as the rest of them.

Pets: Ricardo has been trying to get a dog for a few years now but they don’t have one.

Where do they live? A trailer in Sunnyside

Description of their home: It’s larger than a normal trailer, but it only has two bedrooms, one for her mom and one for her and Ricardo. Very clean, exception being her brother’s side of the room which always seems to end up with clothes everywhere. 

Description of their bedroom: Her side is very nice, most expensive looking items she can get and is practically magazine ready. But she shares it with Ricardo so his side is messier and it’s hard sometimes to keep the divide.

05. THIS OR THAT

Introvert or Extrovert?

Optimist or Pessimist?

Leader or Follower?

Confident or Self-Conscious?

Cautious or Careless?

Religious or Secular?

Passionate or Apathetic?

Book Smarts or Street Smarts?

Compliments or Insults?

Pajamas or Lingerie?

06. FAVORITES

Favorite Color: Pink or Red

Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: She likes to dress as high class as she can get, thrifting clothes to make them nicer is her favorite thing to do. She enjoys dresses and nice jackets the most. 

Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: Honestly, her mother’s music taste is her favorite. Anahi, Thalia, Belinda, Natalia Jimenez, Ricky Martin, she’s grown up with plenty of Latin singers and their songs never fail to make her smile. Aside from that, she does enjoy a lot of pop songs in general.

Favorite Movies: Her all time favorite movie is Mean Girls. But she enjoys a lot of those “chick flicks” like Legally Blonde, Hitch, etc. She does enjoy horror movies, but she prefers saving them for a night with friends.

Favorite Books: Elena will read just about anything, she enjoys lots of books

Favorite Foods/Drinks: Her mother’s sopes are her favorite, and she loves Coca-Cola

Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: She isn’t too well versed in sports but she enjoyed watching the Northside’s football team

Favorite Time of Day: Afternoon

Favorite Weather/Season: Summer

Favorite Animal: Dogs

07. MISCELLANEOUS

Fears/Superstitions: She believes in La Llorona and that telling someone about nightmares stops it from coming true. Other than that, not much.

Political Views: Liberal

Addictions: Probably shopping

Best School Subject: She made sure to keep her grades up in everything, but science was her best

Worst School Subject: There wasn’t a particularly bad subject for her, but her lowest grades were in math

School Clubs/Sports: Before she moved to Riverdale, she was a cheerleader, but she was too busy with work and her family to join clubs and sports once she moved

How does she get money? She works two jobs

How is she with technology? Very good, she’s on it constantly posting pictures and such

08. PAST & FUTURE

Fondest Memory: Shortly after moving to Riverdale, she took Ricardo to Sweetwater and had a picnic and just hung out together for the day

Deepest, Darkest Secret: She has been considering doing some illegal activities to help get money quicker.

Dream Vacation: Morelia, Mexico. Elena wants to see where her mother grew up

Best thing that has ever happened to this character: Learning how to sew

Worst thing that has ever happened to this character: Moving to Riverdale

What do they want to be when they grow up? She switches a lot, most recently she wants to be an actress. But it really doesn’t matter as long as she can be famous from it.

Perfect Date: A nice restaurant, classy, like something out of a movie.

09. BIO

Elena was born in Casa Grande, Arizona as the second child to Arturo and Maria Suárez. Her older brother, Luis, is 2 years older than her and her younger sister Josefina is 4 years younger than her, for most of her life, they got along really well. Actually, her whole family got along really well. But when she was 10, it was revealed that there were actually more problems with her parents than she thought. Her father had cheated on their mother and as revenge, Maria slept with another man and got pregnant, having her younger brother Ricardo. Elena’s parents divorced, Maria took back her maiden name, and as time passed and money became harder to find, her mother moved to a town called Riverdale and took 16 year old Elena and 6 year old Ricardo with her.

Moving was tough on her, she was used to be the popular and smart cheerleader at her old schools and while she got along less with her father and brother after the cheating scandal, she missed her sister a lot. Plus, they were on the Southside and could only afford a trailer. Not that she minded sharing with Ricardo too much. Still, when in town she would see the Northsiders and the Elites and wish she was one of them instead, so she began finding ways to dress like one. Sewing was always a skill she had, and finding clothes from thrift shops wasn’t too hard, soon enough she felt like she was back home. Not exactly as popular or a cheerleader but close enough for her.

Luis didn’t like that side of her, the “Queen Bee” side he saw at school or with her friends, and they ended up being a lot more distant than she’d like. And he seemed to take their father’s side in any argument about the cheating that would come up, while Elena usually sided with her mother. So they talk sometimes, exchange a few words whenever they have to, but that’s it. Josefina was 6 when their parents divorced, a little too young to fully understand everything that happened, but she loves talking with her on the phone about whatever tv show the young girl was watching. With her father, Elena partly blames him for being the reason she had to move. If he just didn’t cheat in the first place, then her mom wouldn’t have cheated as revenge and they wouldn’t have gotten a divorce. So their relationship is only a little worse than her relationship with Luis, occasional pleasantries but mostly try to avoid each other.

Her grades were definitely enough to get her a scholarship to a college, and she was offered a few, but unfortunately she didn’t go. Her brother was only 8 and her mom couldn’t take care of everything by herself so she declined with the hopes that eventually she’ll be able to go to a good college and help her family out more afterwards once they have enough money to survive without her or Ricardo is old enough to work himself.

[impeccablenest68]

La Llorona Tattoo Meaning: A Deep Dive into the Symbolism and Significance - Impeccable Nest

African Tribal Tattoos Meanings: Exploring the Rich Symbolism of Body Art Tear Drop: These tattoos feature a symbolic teardrop directly underneath the eye that is often colored in black ink to mimic actual tears streaming down someone’s face. A bolder design may incorporate illustrations of rambling riverbeds below the eyes as well to represent La Llorona’s story of her desperate search for her children. Symbolic Trees: Tree trunks are often included in tattoo designs that feature silhouettes or faces thoughtfully carved onto them as symbols of life and death—both emotions heavily associated with La Llorona’s tale. The roots can be depicted as winding rivers, representing the watery paths she traveled while looking for her children while also highlighting her connection to nature’s cycle of life and decay. Additionally, vibrant greens can be incorporated into these tattoos as another form of color contrast between the gloominess of La Llo - 5clfpu9uxr

[babylon-crashing]

pizarnik’s ‘extracción de la piedra de locura’

-1-

CANTORA NOCTURNA Joe, macht die Musik von damals macht…

La que murió de su vestido azul está cantando. Canta imbuida de muerte al sol de su ebriedad. Adentro de su canción hay un vestido azul, hay un caballo blanco, hay un corazón verde tatuado con los ecos de los latidos de su corazón muerto. Expuesta a todas las perdiciones, ella canta junto a una niña extraviada que es ella: su amuleto de la buena suerte. Y a pesar de la niebla verde en los labios y del frío gris en los ojos, su voz corroe la distancia que se abre entre la sed y la mano que busca el vaso. Ella canta.

a Olga Orozco

NIGHT SINGER Joe, make the music of those days …

The one who died of her blue dress is singing. She sings imbued with death, sings to the sun of her drunkenness. Inside her song there is a blue dress, there is a white horse, there is a green heart tattooed with the echoes of the beats of her dead heart. Exposed to all that’s doomed, she sings along with a lost girl that is herself: her amulet of good luck. And despite the green mist on her lips and the cold gray in her eyes, her voice eats away at the distance that opens between thirst and the hand that seeks the glass. She sings.

for Olga Orozco

][][

VÉRTIGOS O CONTEMPLACIÓN DE ALGO QUE TERMINA

Esta lila se deshoja. Desde sí misma cae y oculta su antigua sombra. He de morir de cosas así.

VERTIGO, OR CONTEMPLATION OF SOMETHING THAT ENDES

This lilac is leafless. It falls from itself and hides its old shadow. I must die by things like that.

][][

LINTERNA SORDA

Los ausentes soplan y la noche es densa. La noche tiene el color de los párpados del muerto. Toda la noche hago la noche. Toda la noche escribo. Palabra por palabra yo escribo la noche.

BULL’S EYE LANTERN

The absent ones sigh and the night is thick. The night’s color is that of the eyelids of the dead. I make the night all night long. All night I write. Word by word I’m writing the night.

][][

PRIVILEGIO

I Ya he perdido el nombre que me llamaba, su rostro rueda por mí como el sonido del agua en la noche, del agua cayendo en el agua. Y es su sonrisa la última sobreviviente, no mi memoria.

II El más hermoso en la noche de los que se van, oh deseado, es sin fin tu no volver, sombra tú hasta el día de los días.

PRIVILEGE

I I’ve already lost the name that I was called, her face circles around me like the sound of water at night, of the water falling into water. And her smile is the last thing I lose, not my memory.

II The most beautiful of the night are those who leave, you who I wanted, it is endless your not returning, you’re a shadow until the day of the days.

][][

CONTEMPLACIÓN

Murieron las formas despavoridas y no hubo más un afuera y un adentro. Nadie estaba escuchando el lugar porque el lugar no existía. Con el propósito de escuchar están escuchando el lugar. Adentro de tu máscara relampaguea la noche. Te atraviesan con graznidos. Te martillean con pájaros negros. Colores enemigos se unen en la tragedia.

CONTEMPLATION

The terrified shapes died and there was no longer an outside and an inside. Nobody was listening to that place because it did not exist. In order to listen they are listening to that place. Inside your night-mask come flashes of lightning. They cross you, cackling. They hammer you with black birds. Enemy colors come together in tragedy.

][][

NUIT DE COUER

Otoño en el azul de un muro: sé amparo de las pequeñas muertas. Cada noche, en la duración de un grito, viene una sombra nueva. A solas danza la misteriosa autónoma. Comparto su miedo de animal muy joven en la primera noche de las cacerías.

THE HEART’S NIGHT

Autumn in the blue of a wall: be a shelter for the little dead girls. Every night, in the duration of a scream, a new shadow arises. It’s autonomous and mysterious and dances alone. I share the fear of a very young animal going out on the first night of its hunt.

][][

CUENTO DE INVIERNO

La luz del viento entre los pinos ¿comprendo estos signos de tristeza incandescente? Un ahorcado se balancea en el árbol marcado con la cruz lila. Hasta que logró deslizarse fuera de mi sueño y entrar a mi cuarto, por la ventana, en complicidad con el viento de medianoche.

WINTER’S TALE

The light of the wind among the pines. Do I understand these signs of incandescent sadness? A hanged man swings in the tree marked with a lilac cross. Until he managed to slip out of my dream and enter my room, through the window, in complicity with the midnight wind.

][][

EN LA OTRA MADRUGADA

Veo crecer hasta mis ojos figuras de silencio y desesperadas. Escucho grises, densas voces en el antiguo lugar del corazón.

IN THE OTHER DAWN

I see figures of silence and despair coming up to my eye-level. I hear gray, thick voices calling from the empty place of my heart.

][][

DESFUNDACIÓN

Alguien quiso abrir alguna puerta. Duelen sus manos aferradas a su prisión de huesos de mal agüero. Toda la noche ha forcejeado con su nueva sombra. Llovió adentro de la madrugada y martillaban con lloronas. La infancia implora desde mis noches de cripta. La música emite colores ingenuos. Grises pájaros en el amanecer son a la ventana cerrada lo que a mis males mi poema.

NO FOUNDATION

Someone wanted to open a door. They hurt their hands clinging to their prison of bones from bad omens. All night she struggled with her new shadow. It rained in the dawn and was pummeled with weeping women. Childhood pleads from my night’s crypt. The music blooms in naive colors. Dawn’s gray birds are to the closed window what this poem is to my pain.

][][

FIGURAS Y SILENCIOS

Manos crispadas me confinan al exilio. Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda. Me quieren anochecer, me van a morir. Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

FIGURES AND SILENCES

Twitching hands confine me to exile. Help me not to ask for help. They want me my dusk, they’re see I’ll die. Help me not to ask for help.

][][

FRAGMENTOS PARA DOMINAR EL SILENCIO

I Las fuerzas del lenguaje son las damas solitarias, desoladas, que cantan a través de mi voz que escucho a lo lejos. Y lejos, en la negra arena, yace una niña densa de música ancestral. ¿Dónde la verdadera muerte? He querido iluminarme a la luz de mi falta de luz. Los ramos se mueren en la memoria. La yacente anida en mí con su máscara de loba. La que no pudo más e imploró llamas y ardimos.

II Cuando a la casa del lenguaje se le vuela el tejado y las palabras no guarecen, yo hablo. Las damas de rojo se extraviaron dentro de sus máscaras aunque regresarían para sollozar entre flores. No es muda la muerte. Escucho el canto de los enlutados sellar las hendiduras del silencio. Escucho tu dulcísimo canto florecer mi silencio gris.

III La muerte ha restituido al silencio su prestigio hechizante. Y yo no diré mi poema y yo he de decirlo. Aún si el poema (aquí, ahora) no tiene sentido, no tiene destino.

FRAGMENTS TO MASTER THE SILENCE

I The powers of language are the lonely, desolate ladies who sing through my voice that I hear from afar. And from far away, in black sand, lies a heavy girl full of ancestral music. Where real death? I wanted to enlighten myself in the light about my lack of light. The bouquets of memory are dying. The girl in the sand nests in me with her wolf mask. The one that could not stand it anymore and implored flames, the one we burned.

II When the roof is flung off the house of language and words do not shine, I speak. The ladies in red are lost in their masks but they would return to sob in the flowers. Death is not mute. I hear the mourners’ song sealing the cracks of silence. I hear your sweet song bloom into my gray silence.

III Death has restored to silence haunting its own prestigiousness. And I will not say my poem and I will have to say it. Even if the poem (here, now) has no meaning, has no destiny.

][][

SORTILEGIOS

Y las damas vestidas de rojo para mi dolor y con mi dolor insumidas en soplo, agazapadas como fetos de escorpiones en el lado más interno de mi nuca, las madres de rojo que me aspiran el único calor que me doy con mi corazón que apenas pudo nunca latir, a mi que siempre tuve que aprender sola cómo se hace para beber y comer y respirar y a mí que nadie me enseñó a llorar y nadie me enseñará ni siquiera las grandes damas adheridas a la entretela de mi respiración con babas rojizas y velos flotantes de sangre, mi sangre, la mía sola, la que yo me procuré y ahora vienen a beber de mí luego de haber matado al rey que flota en el río y mueve los ojos y sonríe pero está muerto y cuando alguien está muerto, muerto está por más que sonría y las grandes, las trágicas damas de rojo han matado al que se va río abajo y yo me quedo como rehén en perpetua posesión.

SORCERY

And the ladies dressed in red for my pain and with my pain consumed my breath, crouching like fetuses of scorpions on the hollow of my neck, the mothers in red who sucked the only heat in my barely beating heart, I always had to learn only how to drink and eat and breathe, I was never taught to cry and no one will teach me even the great ladies attached to the interlace of my breathing with reddish drool and floating veils of blood, my blood, mine alone, which I procured and now they come to drink after killing the king who floats in the river and moves his eyes and smiles but is dead and when someone is dead she is dead, regardless of all your smiles, and the tragic ladies in red have killed the one who floats downstream and I remain as a hostage in perpetual possession.

][][

-2-

UN SUEÑO DONDE EL SILENCIO ES DE ORO

El perro del invierno dentellea mi sonrisa. Fue en el puente. Yo estaba desnuda y llevaba un sombrero con flores y arrastraba mi cadáver también desnudo y con un sombrero de hojas secas. He tenido muchos amores – dije – pero el más hermoso fue mi amor por los espejos.

A DREAM WHERE SILENCE IS GOLDEN

The winter dog opens my smile. On the bridge I was naked and wore a hat with flowers and dragged my naked corpse wearing a hat of dried leaves. I’ve had many loves – I said – but the most beautiful one was my love for mirrors.

][][

TÊTE DE JEUNE FILLE (ODILON REDON)

de música la lluvia de silencio los años que pasan una noche mi cuerpo nunca más podrá recordarse.

a André Pieyre de Mandiargues

TÊTE DE JEUNE FILLE (ODILON REDON)

music like rain of silence the years who spend a night my body will never again remember.

for André Pieyre de Mandiargues

][][

RESCATE

Y es siempre el jardín de lilas del otro lado des río. Si el alma pregunta si queda lejos se le responderá: del otro lado del río, no éste sino aquél.

a Octavio Paz

RESCUE

And it’s always the garden of lilacs on the other side of the river. If the soul asks you if it is far away, you should answer: on the other side of the river, not this one but that one.

for Octavio Paz

][][

ESCRITO EN EL ESCORIAL

te llamo igual que antaño la amiga al amigo en pequeñas canciones miedosas del alba

WRITTEN IN THE ESCORIAL [1]

I’ll call you just like yesterday friend to friend in little songs fearful of the dawn

][][

EL SOL, EL POEMA

Barcos sobre el agua natal. Agua negra, animal de olvido. Agua lila, única vigilia. El misterio soleado de las voces en el parque. Oh tan antiguo.

THE SUN, THE POEM

Boats on natal water. Black water, animal of forgetfulness. Lilac water, the only vigil. The sun-baked mystery of the voices in the park. O how old this is.

][][

ESTAR

Vigilas desde este cuarto donde la sombra temible es la tuya.

No hay silencio aquí sino frases que evitas oír.

Signos en los muros narran la bella lejanía.

(Haz que no muera sin volver a verte)

TO BE

You watch from this room where the fearsome shadow is yours.

There is no silence here only phrases that you avoid hearing.

Signs on the walls they tell of the beautiful distance.

(Don’t let me die without seeing you again)

][][

LAS PROMESAS DE LA MÚSICA

Detrás de un muro blanco la variedad del arco iris. La muñeca en su jaula está haciendo el otoño. Es el despertar de las ofrendas. Un jardín recién creado, un llanto detrás de la música. Y que suene siempre, así nadie asistirá al movimiento del nacimiento, a la mímica de las ofrendas, al discurso de aquella que soy anudada a esta silenciosa que también soy. Y que de mí no quede más que la alegría de quien pidió entrar y le fue concedido. Es la música, es la muerte, lo que yo quise decir en noches variadas como los colores del bosque.

THE PROMISES OF MUSIC

Behind a white wall are the variations of the rainbow. The doll in her cage is crafting autumn. It is the start of the sacrifices. A new garden, a wail behind the music. And let it always sound, so that none will attend to the movement of birth, the imitation of the offerings, the speech of the woman that I am bound to, this silent thing that is also me. And see that nothing remains of me but the joy of those who were asked to enter and were granted. It’s music, it’s death, what I wanted to say on nights varied like the colors of the forest.

][][

INMINENCIA

Y el muelle gris y las casas rojas. Y no es aún la soledad Y los ojos ven un cuadrado negro con un círculo de música lila en su centro Y el jardín de las delicias sólo existe fuera de los jardines Y la soledad es no poder decirla Y el muelle gris y las casas rojas.

IMMINENCE

And the gray dock and the red houses. And it is not even loneliness And the eyes see a black square with a circle of lilac music in its center And the garden of delights only exists outside the gardens And loneliness is not being able to say it And the gray dock and the red houses.

][][

CONTINUIDAD

No nombrar las cosas por sus nombres. Las cosas tiene bordes dentados, vegetación lujuriosa. Pero quién habla en la habitación llena de ojos. Quién dentellea con una boca de papel. Nombres que vienen, sombras con máscaras. Cúrame del vacío – dije. (La luz se amaba en mi oscuridad. Supe que no había cuando me encontré diciendo: soy yo.) Cúrame – dije.

CONTINUITY

Do not name things by their names. Things have jagged edges, lush vegetation. But who shall speak in the room full of eyes? Who starts with a paper mouth? Names that come, shadows with masks. Cure me with emptiness, I said. (The light was loved in my darkness. I knew there was nothing when I found myself saying: it’s me.) Cure me, I said.

][][

ADIOSES DEL VERANO

Suave rumor de la maleza creciendo. Sonidos de lo que destruye el viento. Llegan a mí como si yo fuera el corazón de lo que existe. Quisiera estar muerta y entrar yo también en un corazón ajeno.

SUMMER FAREWELLS

Gentle rumor of growing weed. Sounds of what the wind destroys. They come to me as if I were the heart of all that exists. I would like to be dead and also enter into someone else’s heart.

][][

COMO AGUA SOBRE UNA PIEDRA

a quien retorna en busca de su antiguo buscar la noche se le cierra como agua sobre una piedra como aire sobre un pájaro como se cierran dos cuerpos al amarse

LIKE WATER UPON A STONE

to the one who returns searching for her old search the night closes like water upon a stone like air around a bird or like two bodies clasping on to each other in love

][][

EN UN OTOÑO ANTIGUO

¿Cómo se llama el nombre? Un color como un ataúd, una transparencia que no atravesarás. ¿Y cómo es posible no saber tanto?

a Marie-Jeanne Noirot

IN A FAR-FLUNG AUTUMN

What is the name of the name? A color like a coffin, a transparency that you will not go through. And how is it possible not to know so much?

for Marie-Jeanne Noirot

][][

-3-

CAMINOS DEL ESPEJO

I Y sobre todo mirar con inocencia. Como si no pasara nada, lo cual es cierto.

II Pero a ti quiero mirarte hasta que tu rostro se aleje de mi miedo como un pájaro del borde filoso de la noche.

III Como una niña de tiza rosada en un muro muy vieja súbitamente borrada por la lluvia.

IV Como cuando se abre una flor y revela el corazón que no tiene.

V Todos los gestos de mi cuerpo y de mi voz para hacer de mí la ofrenda, el ramo que abandona el viento en el umbral.

VI Cubre la memoria de tu cara con la máscara de la que serás y asusta a la niña que fuiste.

VII La noche de los dos se dispersó con la niebla. Es la estación de los alimentos fríos.

VIII Y la sed, mi memoria es de la sed, yo abajo, en el fondo, en el pozo, yo bebía, yo recuerdo.

IX Caer como un animal herido en el lugar que iba a ser de revelaciones.

X Como quien no quiere la cosa. Ninguna cosa. Boca cosida. Párpados cosidos. Me olvidé. Adentro el viento. Todo cerrado y el viento adentro.

XI Al negro sol del silencio las palabras se doraban.

XII Pero el silencio es cierto. Por eso escribo. Estoy sola y escribo. No, no estoy sola. Hay alguien aquí que tiembla.

XIII Aún si digo sol y luna y estrella me refiero a cosas que me suceden. ¿Y qué deseaba yo? Deseaba un silencio perfecto. Por eso hablo.

XIV La noche tiene la forma de un grito de lobo.

XV Delicia de perderse en la imagen presentida. Yo me levanté de mi cadáver, yo fui en busca de quien soy. Peregrina de mí, he ido hacia la que duerme en un país al viento.

XVI Algo caía en el silencio. Mi última palabra fue yo pero me refería al alba luminosa.

XVII Mi caída sin fin a mi caída sin fin en donde nadie me aguardó pues al mirar quien me aguardaba no vi otra cosa que a mí misma.

XVIII Flores amarillas constelan un círculo de tela azul. El agua tiembla llena de viento.

XIX Deslumbramiento del día, pájaros amarillos en la mañana. Una mano desata tinieblas, una mano arrastra la cabellera de una ahogada que no cesa de pasar por el espejo. Volver a la memoria del cuerpo, he de volver a mis huesos en duelo, he de comprender lo que dice mi voz.

ROUTES OF THE MIRROR

I And, above all, look innocently. Like nothing happened, which is true.

II But I want to look at you until your face fades away from my fear, like a bird on the sharp edge of the night.

III Like a girl in pink chalk on a very old wall suddenly erased by the rain.

IV Like when a flower opens and revealing the heart that it does not have.

V All the gestures of my body and my voice to make of me the offering, the bouquet left by the wind on the threshold.

VI Cover the memory of your face with the mask that you will become and scare the girl that you were.

VII The night for them dispersed with the fog. It is the season of cold foods.

VIII And thirst, my memory is of thirst, deep down in me, in the well, I drank, I remember.

IX Fall like a wounded animal in the place that was going to be safe for revelations.

X Like someone who does not want a thing. Not a thing. Mouth sewn shut. Eyelids stitched closed. I forgot myself. Inside the wind. It all closed and the wind inside.

XI To the black sun of silence the words were golden.

XII But the silence is true. That’s why I write. I’m alone and I write. No, I’m not alone. There is someone here who trembles.

XIII Even if I say sun and moon and star, I mean things that happen to me. And what did I want? I wanted perfect silence. That’s why I speak.

XIV The night has the shape of a wolf’s cry.

XV You sense the delight of getting lost in the image. I rose up from my corpse, I went in search of who I am. The female pilgrim of me, I have gone to the one that sleeps in a country of the wind.

XVI Falling endless into my endless fall where no one waited for me, where I looked to see who was looking for me and saw no one but myself.

XVII Something fell into silence. My last word was «I» but I was referring to the luminous dawn.

XVIII Yellow flower constellations draw a circle of blue earth. The water trembles full of wind.

XIX Dazzle of day break, yellow birds in the morning. A hand releases darkness, a hand drags the hair of a drowned woman who crosses endlessly through the mirror. Back to the memory of the body, I have to return to my bones in mourning, I have to understand what my voice says.

][][

-4-

EXTRACCIÓN DE LA PIEDRA DE LOCURA Elles, les ámes (…), sont malades et elles souffrent et nul ne leur porte-reméde; elles sont blessées et brisées et nul ne les panse. Ruysbroeck

La luz mala se ha avecinado y nada es cierto. Y si pienso en todo lo que leí acerca del espíritu… Cerré los ojos, vi cuerpos luminosos que giraban en la niebla, en el lugar de las ambiguas vecindades. No temas, nada te sobrevendrá, ya no hay violadores de tumbas. El silencio, el silencio siempre, las monedas de oro del sueño.

Hablo como en mí se habla. No mi voz obstinada en parecer una voz humana sino la otra que atestigua que no he cesado de morar en el bosque.

Si vieras a la que sin ti duerme en un jardín en ruinas en la memoria. Allí yo, ebria de mil muertes, hablo de mí conmigo sólo por saber si es verdad que estoy debajo de la hierba. No sé los nombres. ¿A quién le dirás que no sabes? Te deseas otra. La otra que eres se desea otra. ¿Qué pasa en la verde alameda? Pasa que no es verde y ni siquiera hay una alameda. Y ahora juegas a ser esclava para ocultar tu corona ¿otorgada por quién? ¿quién te ha ungido? ¿quién te ha consagrado? El invisible pueblo de la memoria más vieja. Perdida por propio designio, has renunciado a tu reino por las cenizas. Quien te hace doler te recuerda antiguos homenajes. No obstante, lloras funestamente y evocas tu locura y hasta quisieras extraerla de ti como si fuese una piedra a ella, tu solo privilegio. En un muro blanco dibujas las alegorías del reposo, y es siempre una reina loca que yace bajo la luna sobre la triste hierba del viejo jardín. Pero no hables de los jardines, no hables de la luna no hables de la rosa, no hables del mar. Habla de lo que sabes. Habla de lo que vibra en tu médula y hace luces y sombras en tu mirada, habla del dolor incesante de tus huesos, habla del vértigo, habla de tu respiración, de tu desolación, de tu traición. Es tan oscuro, tan en silencio el proceso a que me obligo. Oh habla del silencio.

De repente poseída por un funesto presentimiento de un viento negro que impide respirar, busqué el recuerdo de alguna alegría que me sirviera de escudo, o de arma de defensa, o aun de ataque. Parecía el Eclesiastés: busqué en todas mis memorias y nada, nada debajo de la aurora de dedos negros. Mi oficio (también en el sueño lo ejerzo) es conjurar y exorcizar. A qué hora empezó la desgracia? No quiero saber. No quiero más que un silencio para mí y las que fui, un silencio como la pequeña choza que encuentran en el bosque los niños perdidos. Y qué sé yo qué ha de ser de mí si nada rima con nada.

Te despeñas. Es el sinfín desesperante, igual y no obstante contrario a la noche de los cuerpos donde apenas un manantial cesa aparece otro que reanuda el fin de las aguas.

Sin el perdón de las aguas no puedo vivir. Sin el mármol final del cielo no puedo morir.

En ti es de noche. Pronto asistirás al animoso encabritarse del animal que eres. Corazón de la noche, habla.

Haberse muerto en quien se era y en quien se amaba, haberse y no haberse dado vuelta como un cielo tormentoso y celeste al mismo tiempo.

Hubiese querido más que esto y a la vez nada.

Va y viene diciéndose solo en solitario vaivén. Un perderse gota a gota el sentido de los días. Señuelos de conceptos. Trampas de vocales. La razón me muestra la salida del escenario donde levantaron una iglesia bajo la lluvia: la mujer-loba deposita a su vástago en el umbral y huye. Hay una luz tristísima de cirios acechados por un soplo maligno. Llora la niña loba. Ningún dormido la oye. Todas las pestes y las plagas para los que duermen en paz.

Esta voz ávida venida de antiguos plañidos. Ingenuamente existes, te disfrazas de pequeña asesina, te das miedo frente al espejo. Hundirme en la tierra y que la tierra se cierre sobre mí. Éxtasis innoble. Tú sabes que te han humillado hasta cuando te mostraban el sol. Tú sabes que nunca sabrás defenderte, que sólo deseas presentarles el trofeo, quiero decir tu cadáver, y que se lo coman y se lo beban.

Las moradas del consuelo, la consagración de la inocencia, la alegría inadjetivable del cuerpo.

Si de pronto una pintura se anima y el niño florentino que miras ardientemente extiende una mano y te invita a permanecer a su lado en la terrible dicha de ser un objeto a mirar y admirar. No (dije), para ser dos hay que ser distintos. Yo estoy fuera del marco pero el modo de ofrendarse es el mismo.

Briznas, muñecos sin cabeza, yo me llamo, yo me llamo toda la noche. Y en mi sueño un carromato de circo lleno de corsarios muertos en sus ataúdes. Un momento antes, con bellísimos atavíos y parches negros en el ojo, los capitanes saltaban de un bergantín a otro como olas, hermosos como soles.

De manera que soñé capitanes y ataúdes de colores deliciosos y ahora tengo miedo a causa de todas las cosas que guardo, no un cofre de piratas, no un tesoro bien enterrado, sino cuantas cosas en movimiento, cuantas pequeñas figuras azules y doradas gesticulan y danzan (pero decir no dicen), y luego está el espacio negro -déjate caer, déjate caer-, umbral de la más alta inocencia o tal vez tan sólo de la locura. Comprendo mi miedo a una rebelión de las pequeñas figuras azules y doradas. Alma partida, alma compartida, he vagado y errado tanto para fundar uniones con el niño pintado en tanto que objeto a contemplar, y no obstante, luego de analizar los colores y las formas, me encontré haciendo el amor con un muchacho viviente en el mismo momento que el del cuadro se desnudaba y me poseía detrás de mis párpados cerrados.

Sonríe y yo soy una minúscula marioneta rosa con un paraguas celeste yo entro por su sonrisa yo hago mi casita en su lengua yo habito en la palma de su mano cierra sus dedos un polvo dorado un poco de sangre adiós oh adiós.

Como una voz no lejos de la noche arde el fuego más exacto. Sin piel ni huesos andan los animales por el bosque hecho cenizas. Una vez el canto de un solo pájaro te había aproximado al calor más agudo. Mares y diademas, mares y serpientes. Por favor, mira cómo la pequeña calavera de perro suspendida del cielo raso pintado de azul se balancea con hojas secas que tiemblan en torno de ella. Grietas y agujeros en mi persona escapada de un incendio. Escribir es buscar en el tumulto de los quemados el hueso del brazo que corresponda al hueso de la pierna. Miserable mixtura. Yo restauro, yo reconstruyo, yo ando así de rodeada de muerte. Y es sin gracia, sin aureola, sin tregua. Y esa voz, esa elegía a una causa primera: un grito, un soplo, un respirar entre dioses. Yo relato mi víspera, ¿Y qué puedes tú? Sales de tu guarida y no entiendes. Vuelves a ella y ya no importa entender o no. Vuelves a salir y no entiendes. No hay por donde respirar y tú hablas del soplo de los dioses.

No me hables del sol porque me moriría. Llévame como a una princesita ciega, como cuando lenta y cuidadosamente se hace el otoño en un jardín.

Vendrás a mí con tu voz apenas coloreada por un acento que me hará evocar una puerta abierta, con la sombra de un pájaro de bello nombre, con lo que esa sombra deja en la memoria, con lo que permanece cuando avientan las cenizas de una joven muerta, con los trazos que duran en la hoja después de haber borrado un dibujo que representaba una casa, un árbol, el sol y un animal.

Si no vino es porque no vino. Es como hacer el otoño. Nada esperabas de su venida. Todo lo esperabas. Vida de tu sombra ¿qué quieres? Un transcurrir de fiesta delirante, un lenguaje sin límites, un naufragio en tus propias aguas, oh avara.

Cada hora, cada día, yo quisiera no tener que hablar. Figuras de cera los otros y sobre todo yo, que soy más otra que ellos. Nada pretendo en este poema si no es desanudar mi garganta.

Rápido, tu voz más oculta. Se transmuta, te transmite. Tanto que hacer y yo me deshago. Te excomulgan de ti. Sufro, luego no sé. En el sueño el rey moría de amor por mí. Aquí, pequeña mendiga, te inmunizan. (Y aún tienes cara de niña; varios años más y no les caerás en gracia ni a los perros.)

mi cuerpo se abría al conocimiento de mi estar y de mi ser confusos y difusos mi cuerpo vibraba y respiraba según un canto ahora olvidado yo no era aún la fugitiva de la música yo sabía el lugar del tiempo y el tiempo del lugar en el amor yo me abría y ritmaba los viejos gestos de la amante heredera de la visión de un jardín prohibido

La que soñó, la que fue soñada. Paisajes prodigiosos para la infancia más fiel. A falta de eso -que no es mucho-, la voz que injuria tiene razón.

La tenebrosa luminosidad de los sueños ahogados. Agua dolorosa.

El sueño demasiado tarde, los caballos blancos demasiado tarde, el haberme ido con una melodía demasiado tarde. La melodía pulsaba mi corazón y yo lloré la pérdida de mi único bien, alguien me vio llorando en el sueño y yo expliqué (dentro de lo posible), mediante palabras simples (dentro de lo posible), palabras buenas y seguras (dentro de lo posible). Me adueñé de mi persona, la arranqué del hermoso delirio, la anonadé a fin de serenar el terror que alguien tenía a que me muriera en su casa.

¿Y yo? ¿A cuántos he salvado yo?

El haberme prosternado ante el sufrimiento de los demás, el haberme acallado en honor de los demás.

Retrocedía mi roja violencia elemental. El sexo a flor de corazón, la vía del éxtasis entre las piernas. Mi violencia de vientos rojos y de vientos negros. Las verdaderas fiestas tienen lugar en el cuerpo y en los sueños.

Puertas del corazón, perro apaleado, veo un templo, tiemblo, ¿qué pasa? No pasa. Yo presentía una escritura total. El animal palpitaba en mis brazos con rumores de órganos vivos, calor, corazón, respiración, todo musical y silencioso al mismo tiempo. ¿Qué significa traducirse en palabras? Y los proyectos de perfección a largo plazo; medir cada día la probable elevación de mi espíritu, la desaparición de mis faltas gramaticales. Mi sueño es un sueño sin alternativas y quiero morir al pie de la letra del lugar común que asegura que morir es soñar. La luz, el vino prohibido, los vértigos, ¿para quién escribes? Ruinas de un templo olvidado. Si celebrar fuera posible.

Visión enlutada, desgarrada, de un jardín con estatuas rotas. Al filo de la madrugada los huesos te dolían. Tú te desgarras. Te lo prevengo y te lo previne. Tú te desarmas. Te lo digo, te lo dije. Tú te desnudas. Te desposees. Te desunes. Te lo predije. De pronto se deshizo: ningún nacimiento. Te llevas, te sobrellevas. Solamente tú sabes de este ritmo quebrantado. Ahora tus despojos, recogerlos uno a uno, gran hastío, en dónde dejarlos. De haberla tenido cerca, hubiese vendido mi alma a cambio de invisibilizarme. Ebria de mí, de la música, de los poemas, por qué no dije del agujero de ausencia. En un himno harapiento rodaba el llanto por mi cara. ¿Y por qué no dicen algo? ¿Y para qué este gran silencio?

EXTRACTING THE STONE OF MADNESS They, the souls …, are crazy and suffer and nothing brings them a remedy; they are injured and broken and nothing comforts them. Jean de Ruysbroeck [2]

The bad light has come and nothing is true. And if I think about everything that I ‘ve read about the spirit … when I closed my eyes, I saw luminous bodies that turned in the fog, in the place of evasive communities. Do not fear this, nothing will happen to you, there are no more corpse snatchers. The silence, always silence, the golden coins of the dream.

I speak as I speak. Not my voice intent in mimicking human speech but the other one that testifies that I am still a beast of the forest.

If only you saw the one who sleeps in a garden, in ruins, in memory without you. There I, drunk with a thousand deaths, talked about me to me, curious if it’s true that I lay under the grass. I do not know their names. Who will you tell that you do not know? You wish that you were someone else. Your other self wishes you were another. What happened in that green orchard? It happens that it isn’t green, there isn’t even an orchard. And now you hide your crown by acting like a slave. Who gave you that? Who anointed you? Who consecrated you? The invisible people of the oldest memory. Lost by your own design, you have renounced your kingdom for ashes. The one who hurts you the most reminds you of all your old homages. Even now you cry unhappily and evoke your madness and even want to extract it, cut it out from you, that which remains like privilege or a stone. On a white wall you draw the allegory of repose and she is always a mad queen who lies under the moon on the sad grass of the old garden. But do not talk about the gardens, do not talk about the moon, do not talk about the rose, do not talk about the sea. Talk about what you know. Talk about what vibrates in your marrow and lights and shadows in your eyes, speaks of the incessant pain of your bones, speaks of vertigo, speaks of your breathing, your desolation, your betrayal. It is so dark, so silent this process that forces me. O speak of silence.

Suddenly possessed I’m filled with fatal foreboding of a black wind that prevents breathing. I sought-after the memory of joy that would shield me, like armor or a weapon, or even attack. I looked like the Ecclesiastes: I searched in all my memories and nothing, nothing under the sun’s black fingers. My trade (also in sleep) is to conjure and exorcise. When did this shame begin? I don’t want to know. All I want is silence for myself and the other selves I once was, a silence like the little hut that the lost children find in fairyland forests. And what will become of me if nothing rhymes with anything?

You fall. This endless despair, flowing with the current and against it to the night of the bodies where scarcely a spring dries up when another resumes its path.

Without the forgiveness of water I cannot live. Without the marble tomb of heaven closing I cannot die.

It’s nighttime inside you. Soon you will witness the animal that you are rearing up. Heart of the night, speak.

To have died in the one you were and the one you once loved, to turn and not turn, like a sky that is both stormy and celestial.

I would have loved more than this and I would have loved nothing.

She comes and goes, she calls herself as she swings alone. A lost sense of the days fall drop by drop. Lures of concepts. Vowel traps. Reason shows me a path away from the spot where they raised a church in the rain: the wolf-woman deposits her cubs on the threshold and flees. Mournful candle light is stalked by a cancerous breeze. The wolf-girl cries. None who sleep hears her. May all the plagues plague those who sleep in peace.

This impatient voice of mine comes from old lamentations. Naively you exist, you dress up as a little assassin, frightening yourself in front of the mirror. To sink into the earth while the earth to closes up around me. Ignoble ecstasy. You know they humiliated you until they showed you the sun. You know that you will never know how to defend yourself, that you only want to present the trophy, I mean your corpse, so that they will eat it, so that they will drink it.

Consolation’s home, the consecration of innocence, the unadjectival joy of the body.

What if suddenly a painting comes alive and the ardent Florentine child extends a hand and invites you to remain by his side in the terrible joy of being an object gazed at and admired? No (I said), to be separate you have to be different. I am outside this framework but the way of offering ourselves is the same.

Leaves of grass, headless dolls, I call for my name, I call for myself all night long. And in my dream there is a circus wagon full of dead corsairs in their coffins. A moment before, with beautiful trappings and black eye-patches, the pirate captains jumped from one sailing ship to another like waves, like beautiful suns.

So I dreamed captains and delicious coffins of colors and now I am afraid of all the things that I keep inside, not pirate booty, not well buried treasure, not all the many things set in motion, how many small blue and gold statuettes gesticulate and dance (but they are mute), and then there is the black space—you shall fall and fall—through the threshold of your greatest innocence or perhaps only through madness. I understand my fear is a revolt of these little blue and gold statuettes. A departed soul, a shared soul, I have wandered and missed so much in order to start a union with the Florentine, to be painted as an object to contemplate, and yet, after analyzing the colors and forms, I found myself making love with a living boy even as the painted man stripped me naked and dragged me behind my closed eyelids.

He smiles and I am a tiny pink puppet with a celestial umbrella I enter his smile I build my little house on his tongue I live in the palm of his hand closing his fingers on golden powder, a bit of blood, goodbye O goodbye.

Like a voice not far from the night, this is how the most exact fire burns. Without skin and bones, the animals roams through the ashes of the burnt forest. Once the song of a single bird had brought you thrilling heat. Seas and diadems, seas and snakes. Please, watch how the little dog skull is suspended from the blue-painted sky swings with dry trembling leaves. Cracks and holes in my flesh escaped from a fire. To write is to look for the charred bone of the arm that corresponds to the burnt bone of the leg among the tumult of a great fire. Miserable mixture that I restore, that I reconstruct, I am surrounded by death. Without grace, without halo, without truce. And that voice, that elegy to a first creator: a shout, a breath, there is breathing among the gods. I say my evening prayers. And what about you? You rise out of your lair and you do not understand. You return and it does not matter whether you understand or not. There is no breathe and yet you speak of breathing gods.

If you talk about the sun I shall die. Lead me like a little blind princess, slowly and carefully, like autumn falling in a garden.

You will come to me with your voice tinged with a vague accent that forces me to evoke an open door, with the shadow of a beautiful named bird, with the remains of a shadow left in my memory, with what is left behind when they throw the ashes of a young woman dead to the wind, with the strokes pressed into the sheet of paper after erasing a house, a tree, a sun, an animal.

If he did not arrive it’s because he did not arrive. It’s like autumn arriving. You expect nothing from his arrival. You expect everything. Shadow of my life, what do you want? A delirious party, a language without limits, a shipwreck in your own waters, O so greedy.

Every hour, every day, I would like to not have to talk. Others are like wax figures, me especially, I am more other than the others. All I want from this poem is to clear my throat.

Quick, use your most hidden voice. It transmutes, it transmits to you. So much to do so I fall apart. They excommunicated you from yourself. I suffer, then I do not know. In dreams the king died of love for me. Here, little beggar, they’ll immunize you. (And you still have the face of a girl, but in several more years you won’t even be able to seduce dogs.)

my body opened to the knowledge of my being and of being confused and diffuse my body trembled and breathed all to a song long forgotten no fugitive of music I knew the place of time and the time of place I opened myself up to love and rhythms the old gestures of a mistress inheritrix to the vision of a forbidden garden

She who dreamed, she who was dreamed. Colossal landscapes for the most faithful of childhoods. In the absence of that -which is not much-, the voice that slanders is right.

The dark luminance of drowned dreams. Painful water.

To late to dream, too late for white horses, too late to leave behind a melody. The melody pulsed in my heart and I cried at the loss of my one good thing, someone saw me crying in the dream and I explained (as far as possible), using simple words (as far as possible), good, safe words (far as possible). I took possession of myself, I plucked her from her beautiful delirium, I annihilated her in order to calm the terror of someone who said that I’d die at home.

And me? How many have I saved?

I have prostrated myself before the suffering of others, I have silenced myself in honor of others.

My red elemental violence receded. Sex at the heart, the path of ecstasy between my legs. My violence of red winds and black winds. The real parties take place in the body and in dreams.

Doors of the heart, the beaten dog, I see a temple, I tremble. What happens? Nothing is happening. Once I detected a total writing. The animal throbbed in my arms with hints of living organs, of heat and heart and breathe, all musical, all silent at the same time. What does it mean to translate yourself into words? And the projects of long-term perfection? Every day you measure the probable elevation of my spirit, the disappearance of my grammatical errors. My dream is a dream without alternatives and I want to die at the foot of the letter of the law of the humdrum that says dying is the same as dreaming. Who do you write for? The light, the forbidden wine, the vertigo. Ruins of a forgotten temple. If only celebrating were possible.

Mourning a mangled visions of a garden with broken statues. Your bones hurt at the edge of dawn. You tear yourself open. I’m warning you and I warned you. Disarm. I’m telling you. I told you. You undress. You get laid. I predicted all this. Suddenly it breaks down: no birth. You take yourself and you overtake yourself. Only you know of this broken rhythm. Now for your booty, you pick them up one by one, this great boredom, where to leave them. Had I been closer I’d have sold my soul in exchange for invisibility. Drunk with myself, with music, with poems, with -why not just say it?- the hole in my emptiness. In a ragged anthem tears roll down my face. And why doesn’t someone say something? And what’s with this great silence?

][][

EL SUEÑO DE LA MUERTE O EL LUGAR DE LOS CUERPOS POÉTICOS Esta noche, dijo, desde el ocaso, me cubrían con una mortaja negra en un lecho de cedro. Me escanciaban vino azul mezclado con amargura. — El Cantar de las Huestes de Igor

Toda la noche escucho el llamamiento de la muerte, toda la noche escucho el canto de la muerte junto al río, toda la noche escucho la voz de la muerte que me llama.

Y tantos sueños unidos, tantas posesiones, tantas inmersiones, en mis posesiones de pequeña difunta en un jardín de ruinas y de lilas. Junto al río la muerte me llama. Desoladamente desgarrada en el corazón escucho el canto de la más pura alegría.

Y es verdad que he despertado en el lugar del amor porque al oír su canto dije: es el lugar del amor. Y es verdad que he despertado en el lugar del amor porque con una sonrisa de duelo yo oí su canto y me dije: es el lugar del amor (pero tembloroso pero fosforescente).

Y las danzas mecánicas de los muñecos antiguos y las desdichas heredadas y el agua veloz en círculos, por favor, no sientas miedo de decirlo: el agua veloz en círculos fugacísimos mientras en la orilla el gesto detenido de los brazos detenidos en un llamamiento al abrazo, en la nostalgia más pura, en el río, en la niebla, en el sol debilísimo filtrándose a través de la niebla.

Más desde adentro: el objeto sin nombre que nace y se pulveriza en el lugar en que el silencio pesa como barras de oro y el tiempo es un viento afilado que atraviesa una grieta y es esa su sola declaración. Hablo del lugar en que se hacen los cuerpos poéticos –como un cesta llena de cadáveres de niñas. Y es en ese lugar donde la muerte está sentada, viste un traje muy antiguo y pulsa un arpa en la orilla el río lúgubre, la muerte en un vestido rojo, la bella, la funesta, la espectral, la que toda la noche pulsó un arpa hasta que me adormecí dentro del sueño.

La muerte es una palabra.

La palabra es una cosa, la muerte es una cosa, es un cuerpo poético que alienta en el lugar de mi nacimiento.

Nunca de este modo lograrás circundarlo. Habla, pero sobre el escenario de cenizas; habla, pero desde el fondo del río donde está la muerte cantando. Y la muerte es ella, me lo dijo el sueño, me lo dijo la canción de la reina. La muerte de cabellos del color del cuervo, vestida de rojo, blandiendo en sus manos funestas un laúd y huesos de pájaro para golpear en mi tumba, se alejó cantando y contemplada de atrás parecía una vieja mendiga y los niños le arrojaban piedras.

Cantaba en la mañana de niebla apenas filtrada por el sol, la mañana del nacimiento, y yo caminaría con una antorcha en la mano por todos los desiertos de ete mundo y aún muerta te seguiría buscando, amor mío perdido, y el canto de la muerte se desplegó en el término de una sola mañana, y cantaba, y cantaba.

También cantó en la vieja taberna cercana del puerto. Había un payaso adolescente y yo le dije que en mis poemas la muerte era mi amante y amante era la muerte y él dijo: tus poemas dicen la justa verdad. Yo tenía dieciséis años y no tenía otro remedio que buscar el amor absoluto. Y fue en la taberna del puerto que cantó la canción.

Escribo con los ojos cerrados, escribo con los ojos abiertos: que se desmorone el muro, que se vuelva río el muro.

La muerte azul, la muerte verde, la muerte roja, la muerte lila, en las visiones del nacimiento.

El traje azul y plata fosforescente de la plañidera en la noche medieval de toda muerte mía.

La muerte está cantando junto al río.

Y fue en la taberna del puerto que cantó la canción de la muerte.

Me voy a morir, me dijo, me voy a morir.

Al alba venid, buen amigo, al alba venid.

Nos hemos reconocido, nos hemos desaparecido, amigo el que yo más quería.

Yo, asistiendo a mi nacimiento. Yo, a mi muerte.

Y yo caminaría por todos los desiertos de este mundo y aún muerta te seguiría buscando, a ti, que fuiste el lugar del amor.

DREAM OF DEATH OR THE PLACE OF THE POETIC BODIES

“Tonight, he said, from sunset, they covered me with a black shroud and set me on a cedar bed. They poured blue wine mixed with bitterness over me.” — The Song of the Hosts of Igor

All night long I hear the call of death, all night long I listen to the song of death by the river, all night long I hear the voice of death calling me.

So many dreams brought together, so many possessions, so many plunges, in my possessed dead little girl left in a garden of ruin and lilacs. By the river death calls out to me. Desolate and torn, in my heart I hear the song of the purest joy.

And it is true that I have awakened in this place of love because, when I heard its song, I said: this is the place of love. And it is true that I have awakened in the place of love because, with a smile in mourning, I heard their song and I said to myself: this is the place of love (trembling, phosphorescent).

And the mechanical dances of ancient dolls and all the inherited misfortunes and the rushing water going in circles, please, don’t feel afraid to say it: the rushing water going in short circles while on the shore the frozen gesture of the stopped arms in an embrace, in the purest of nostalgias, in the river, in the fog, in the weak sun filtering through the fog.

More from within: the unnamed object that is born and ground into small-grains in the spot where silence weighs as heavy as gold bars and time is a sharp wind that crosses a crack and that is its only statement. I speak of the place where the poetic bodies are made — like a handbasket full of little girls’ corpses. And that is where death sits, dressed in a very old suit, playing a harp on the shore the gloomy river, death in a red dress, the beautiful one, the dismal one, the ghostly one, the one that played the harp all night until I fell asleep inside my own dream.

Death is a word.

The word is one thing, death is also a thing, a poetic body that strength from the place of my birth.

You’ll never be able to surround it. It speaks, but only on a stage of ashes; it speaks, but only from the bottom of the river where death is singing. And death is her, the dream told me, the queen’s song told me. The death of hair the color of crow, dressed in red, brandishing in her menacing hands a lute and bird bones to beat on my grave. She walked away singing, looking like an old beggar while children threw stones at her.

I sang in a foggy morning unfiltered by the sun, the morning of birth, and I walked with a torch in my hand through all the deserts of this world and even dead I would still continue to search for you, my lost love. Let the song of death blossom out within a single morning and she sang, she sang.

She also sang in the old tavern near the wharf. I found a teenage clown there and I told him that in my poems death was my lover and my lover was death and he said: your poems speak truth. I was sixteen and had no choice but to seek out absolute love. And it was in the harbor tavern where she sang her song.

I write with my eyes closed, I write with my eyes open: that the wall crumbles, that the wall becomes a river.

Visions of birth: blue death, green death, red death, lilac death.

Blue and silver phosphorescent suits of the mourners on the medieval night of each of my deaths.

Death is singing by the river.

And it was in the harbor tavern that she sang her song of death.

I’m going to die, she said, I’m going to die.

At dawn, please come, my good friend, at dawn come.

We have recognized ourselves, we have disappeared, I and the friend that I most wanted.

Me, attending my own birth. Me, at my own death.

And I would’ve walked through all the deserts of this world, even if I were dead, looking for you, you who were the place of love.

][][

NOCHE COMPARTIDA EN EL RECUERDO DE UNA HUIDA

Golpes en la tumba. Al filo de las palabras golpes en la tumba. Quién vive, dije. Yo dije quién vive. Y hasta cuándo esta intromisión de lo externo de lo interno, o de lo menos interno de lo interno, que se va tejiendo como un manto de arpillera sobre mi pobreza indecible. No fue el sueño, no fue la vigilia, no fue el crimen, no fue el nacimiento: solamente el golpear como un pesado cuchillo sobre la tumba de mi amigo. Y lo absurdo de mi costado derecho, lo absurdo de un sauce inclinado hacia la derecha sobre un río, mi brazo derecho, mi hombro derecho, mi oreja derecha, mi desposesión. Desviarme hacia mi muchacha izquierda —manchas azules en mi palma izquierda, misteriosas manchas azules—, mi zona de silencio virgen, mi lugar de reposo en donde me estoy esperando. No aún es demasiado desconocida, aún no sé reconocer estos sonidos nuevos que están iniciando un canto de queja diferente del mío que es un canto de quemada, que es un canto de niña perdida en una silenciosa ciudad en ruinas.

¿Y cuántos centenares de años hace que estoy muerta y te amo?

Escucho mis voces, los coros de los muertos. Atrapada entre las rocas: empotrada en la hendidura de una roca. No soy yo la hablante: es el viento que me hace aletear para que yo crea que estos cánticos del azar que se formulan por obra del movimiento son palabras venidas de mí.

Y esto fue cuando empecé a morirme, cuando golpearon en los cimientos y me recordé. Suenan las trompetas de la muerte. el cortejo de muñecas de corazones de espejo con mis ojos azul—verdes reflejados en cada uno de los corazones .

Imitas viejos gestos heredados. Las damas de antaño cantaban entre muros leprosos, escuchaban trompetas de la muerte, miraban desfilar —ellas, las imaginadas— un cortejo imaginario de muñecas con corazones de espejo y en cada corazón mis ojos de pájara de papel dorado embestida por el viento. La imaginada pajarita cree cantar; en verdad sólo murmura como un sauce inclinado sobre el río.

Muñequita de papel, yo la recorté en papel celeste, verde, rojo, y se quedó en el suelo, en el máximo de la carencia de relieves y de dimensiones. En medio del camino te incrustaron, figurita errante, estás en el medio del camino y nadie te distingue pues no te diferencias del suelo aun si a veces gritas, pero hay tantas cosas que gritan en un camino ¿por qué irían a ver qué significa esa mancha verde, celeste, roja?

Si fuertemente, a sangre y fuego, se graban mis imágenes, sin sonidos, sin colores, ni siquiera lo blanco. Si se intensifica el rastro de los animales nocturnos en las inscripciones de mis huesos. Si me afinco en el lugar del recuerdo como una criatura se atiene a la saliente de una montaña y al más pequeño movimiento hecho de olvido cae —hablo de lo irremediable, pido lo irremediable—, el cuerpo desatado y los huesos desparramados en el silencio de la nieve traidora. Proyectada hacia el regreso, cúbreme con una mortaja lila. Y luego cántame una canción de una ternura sin precedentes, una canción que no diga de la vida ni de la muerte sino de gestos levísimos como el más imperceptible ademán de aquiescencia , una canción que sea menos que una canción, una canción como un dibujo que representa una pequeña casa debajo de un sol al que le faltan algunos rayos; allí ha de poder vivir la muñequita de papel verde, celeste y rojo; allí se ha de poder erguir y tal vez andar en su casita dibujada sobre una página en blanco.

SHARED NIGHT IN MEMORY OF RUNNING AWAY

Beating on the grave. On the edge of language they are beating on the grave. Who is it? I asked. I asked who is it. And how longer will this intrusion of external into internal go? or the less internal into the internal, woven like a burlap veil over my unspeakable poverty. It was not the dream, it was not the vigil, it was not the crime, it was not the birth: it was only fist-beatings, like a heavy knife piercing the grave of a friend. And the absurdity of my right side, the absurdity of a willow leaning to the right over a river, my right arm, my right shoulder, my right ear, my dispossession. To deviate towards my left girl — blue blotches on my left palm, mysterious blue blotches — my region of virgin silence, my resting place where I am waiting for myself. Is she still too unknown yet? I still do not know how to recognize these new sounds that begin as a song of objection different from mine own, which is a burnt song, which is a song of a girl lost in a silent city of ruins.

And how many hundreds of years have gone by since I died and I loved you?

I listen to my voices, the choruses of the dead. Trapped between the rocks: embedded in the cleft of a rock. I am not the speaker: it is the wind that makes me flutter so that I believe that this chorus of chance was formulated by the movement of words that came out of me.

And this was when I started to die, when they struck these foundations and I recalled myself. Death’s trumpets can be heard. The courtship of dolls with mirror-hearts stare with my blue eyes — green reflected in each one of the hearts.

Imitate these old-worn, familial gestures. The ladies of old sang among the leper’s wall while listening to death’s trumpets, while watching the procession — they, the imagined ones — an imaginary procession of dolls with mirror-hearts and in each heart stared my golden paper eyes slouching in the wind. This imagined little bird believes she can sing; in truth she just murmurs like a willow leaning over a river.

Paper doll, I cut her from green, red, blue paper as she remained on the floor, at the edge of relief and dimensions. In the middle of the road they buried you, little traveler, you are in the middle of the road and nobody knows you because you do not differentiate yourself from the ground even if sometimes you scream, but there are so many things that scream. Why would anyone come to gaze on a green blotch, a light blue blotch, a red blotch?

If you squeeze them, even the blood and fire, all my images leave traces in the air, without sounds, without colors, not even white. If the traces of nocturnal animals are intensified, are inscribed on my bones — if I root in the place of memory as a creature rooted to the ledge of a mountain and whose smallest movement will make oblivion falls — I speak of the irremediable, I ask for the irremediable — the body unleashed and the bones scattered in silence upon the traitorous snow. Look ahead for my return, cover me with a purple shroud. And then sing me a song of an unprecedented tenderness, a song that does not mention life or death but only of the slightest of gestures, of the most imperceptible of agreements, a song that is less than a song, a song that is a drawing of a small house under a sun that is missing some of its rays; that is where the green and red and light blue doll might live. Perhaps she will stand up and perhaps she will walk into her little house, the one drawn on a blank sheet of paper.

][][

NOTES: [1] The Escorial is a vast royal building complex located in San Lorenzo de El Escorial, near Madrid. [2] One of the Flemish mystics of the medieval Catholic Church.

[lloronala]

FULL NAME.  imelda rivera MEANING. warrior woman, universal battle, or powerful fighter NICKNAME.  ‘melda, hermana, imeldita & all the pet names her husband gives her GENDER.  female HEIGHT.  5′2 without heels AGE.  119 ZODIAC. scorpio SPOKEN LANGUAGES.  spanish & english

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOUR. jet black with grey streaks EYE COLOUR.  amber violet SKIN TONE. brown BODY TYPE.  curve with a build ACCENT.  spanish VOICE. low, raspy but delightful DOMINANT HAND.  right POSTURE.  straight, poised, firm SCARS.  n/a TATTOOS.  n/a MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).   i’m gonna go with eyes? yes, eyes

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

PLACE OF BIRTH. santa cecilia, mexico HOMETOWN.  same answer as above BIRTH WEIGHT.  healthy weight i presume BIRTH HEIGHT.  healthy height i presume MANNER OF BIRTH.  natural FIRST WORDS.  papá SIBLINGS.  twin brothers PARENTS.  unnamed mother & father PARENT INVOLVEMENT. her mother has played a huge role in raising her to become a caretaker for the family, while her father played a role in building her characteristics to who she is today (both the positive & the negative lmao)

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION. shoemaker/previous matriarch CURRENT RESIDENCE.  land of the dead CLOSE FRIENDS.  a few--she doesn’t have that many, but that’s because she’s always been picky with whom she got close to RELATIONSHIP STATUS.  married FINANCIAL STATUS.  average DRIVER’S LICENSE. n/a--please don’t let her drive, she can only drive pepita and that’s it CRIMINAL RECORD. n/a VICES.  she rarely forgives and never forgets

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.  bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.  bi PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.  submissive       |       dominant     |       switch PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.  submissive       |       dominant       |       switch LIBIDO.  it’s manageable. i do headcanon her to have a pretty high one if anything, but of course there’s a time & place for everything. TURN ON’S. being worshiped, being taken care of, some dominance, having shit together, well respected, equality, a good sense of humor, a share in roles TURN OFF’S.   oppression, idiocy, misogyny, impatience, extreme dominance, narcissism, selfishness, lethargy   RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.  a single look at her & many can tell that she’s mostly dominant when it comes to relationships. she’s the one that has the last saying (or would prefer to have it), & doesn’t take nonsense from anyone else. but beneath the hard exterior is a softer one, & with the right person can be brought out easily. she isn’t someone to give her trust to anyone, it has to be speculated through her before doing so. but after that? she’s more than willing to rely on the said person, loving them dearly & passionately, & even sharing some of her dominance with theirs to balance out the relationship.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG. la llorona HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.   reading, sewing, or taking a stroll outside MENTAL ILLNESSES.  i’d like to say she has mild ptsd regarding the past/her mistakes that haunt her from time to time. it’s not an extreme case of it, but it is still there, evidently. PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.  n/a LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED. mostly left brained with a hint of the right side. PHOBIAS.  loss & betrayal SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.  quite high VULNERABILITIES.  her family and her husband

TAGGED BY: @magaprima

TAGGING: @gliitchiing @hamadaxfighter @coronabane @origcmibird @wvinterisms @coronian & anyoneeee