tang3rin3dr3am

[tang3rin3dr3am]

I have been waiting, almost like a jack in a box. Springs tight, condensed, and rusty by misuse. Now every word I write comes from within me, it does not come from the great beyond. My words don't spell his sentences, yet I have not forsaken him, him who is almighty. In Him I bestow all my faith yet I feel a massive disconnect. I feel damnation, I fear my legs, I hold resentment towards my tongue, and hold my actions with great hostility. I feel him, I know of him, I once could hold short conversation’s with him. He was the one, he still is yet not with the same intensity.

I lost him, or so I believed. You never truly lose him, you can lose people, you can lose anything but never him, not him. Because even though I lost my way, he was the shadow, the wind, the sun and everything that surrounds me. You can’t lose the earth you walk on.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

The white board

For a long time my fingers weren’t mine, the ability to write, communicate what I knew to be true, and cling to a pencil was a gift bestowed upon me by God. I remember my first sentence, though vaguely. I wrote about dreams, angels, death, and delusions. A short story about a falling girl saved by an Angel, forever longing, forever deluded -she killed herself at the end. In my much younger years I wrote mostly about death, sometimes love. Not that I knew much about any of those subjects but I tried, or at least I justified it, it did not matter if I didn’t know what love and loss felt like. They weren’t my feelings, my thoughts, or my experiences. They were someone else’s, who’s? I hadn’t the faintest idea.

My words were projections, a manifestation of my religious faith, or lack thereof.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Ahí muere.

El alma mía reza por un día,

ruega por segundos,

persigue minutos,

y maldice horas vacías,

horas de hoy

y de mañana.

El alma odia lo pasajero,

destripa las manecillas

de nuestro amor

lo que un día fue

y sigue siendo,

pero solo en mi memoria.

Recuerdo cada rose,

susurró, murmullo, sonido de dientes,

recuerdo cada llanto,

plegarias a el cielo, contacto con la acera y

putrefacta peste de mis sudores en días cálidos.

Pero, con todo y peste mi alma,

la puta alma mía,

llora por sudores y días de sol donde se

mezclan líquidos humanos y olores maritales.

Olores de intimidad

y caricias de recuerdos,

olores a ti,

a mi

y a todo lo nuestro.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

No comprendo

It's like the more I love people

The less I want to be around them

The more I adore

The less I tolerate

Therefore the more I want the less I have

No lo llego a entender.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Tonsils

It was the strength of my teeth

that made me who I was

The ability of my jaw to inflict

such enormous pressure to my gums

The durability to withstand

such abominable spirit in silence

Locked mouth and mumbled

words, a jumble of incoherent sounds

I'd choke on my own spit

taste my lunch in between my molars

and realized that my tongue could not

differentiate between bitter and sweet

There was a problem

in the composition of me.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Arte

I find art in sickness

in bloody knees

runny noses

And clogged throats

I find beauty in the humane

self-harming

starvation

self-destruction

And a lot of self pleasure

I find feeling in nothingness

ripped pages

broken glass

rusty scissors

And dusty windowsills

I'm a frustrated artist looking to rip my skin and break each bone. Smelling of mucous and rotten fruit.

Dust long settled in my pores.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Lost sense of self

He sees someone in me.

I am not her.

Within me exist people who I've yet to know.

The sequence of my words and the sound of each vowel, words long said and now only smell of faint flickers of another name.

He looks at me yet does not see me. Makes direct eye contact yet does not look at me.

I am not me when I am with him, I'm someone else. The letters of my name rearrange in his throat and spell a different word.

Who am I?

How strange, I could have sworn I knew who I was.

I do know who I am, just not now.

I'll know who I am as soon as I remember my name.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Dirty dishes.

The knives and anything sharp are the last things I wash, every time.

I forgot the reason behind it.

Either to end somebody's life or my own? I can't tell anymore.

I don't like to have my back exposed and not have anything sharp in my hand but also would hate to leave a mess of dirty plates before killing myself; It's poor etiquette.

The less of a mess the better. Can't have people hating me even in death.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

I am my father's child.

I just keep comparing. Are my tears worth it? Can I cry? I don't think I can.

When I look into my mother's eyes all that's staring back in the reflection of her pupils is my father's indifference. His lack of trying and emotional impotence leaked from my pores.

I cringe when I hear myself speak, I know myself so little yet recognize the people who make me who I am. I am everybody but myself most days, a concoction of family, friends and people I once envied, but most of all my father.

I don't think I can afford to be anyone else.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

One more time

It has gotten to a point where the hollowness of my stomach and the hunger I feel makes me feel beautiful. I feel complete fulfillment in the lack of completeness within my body. The sounds are an indication that what I am doing is working, I'm hurting myself enough to repent for my wrongness.

The ache and throbbing ecstasy until it's not.

It's fun until it can't be.

It's beautiful until it no longer is.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Over it

I'm aware of what I do and when I do it just not why. I might have a vague idea but I'm never certain.

That's how I walk through life never knowing and therefore never being. Can't be depressed if you aren't sure if you're even sad in the first place.

I'm aware that I need help. It can't be healthy to be happy yet want to end it all when you stop laughing.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Present Past

"We used to dance-"

Left and right to left once again.

"-If I'm not mistaken it was you who taught me to move, wasn't it?" I frowned "No" the sound of broken bones grinding together as she swayed her head left and right, left and right, left and right again. "Are you saying you are not who I believe you are" Her tone sounded trying, pleading with justification. "You already knew how to dance." She looked confused "I simply gave you a rhythm to follow." She laughed, though it sounded strangled, her broken neck giving no sort of blessing.

I felt her bruised hands grab at my biceps, her bloody knuckles attracting my gaze.  We danced but only one of us had a shadow to follow her movement. Nails clawed their way into my skin leaving cracks. Each time she heard the spliting of my skin her eyes would glaze over with a feeling that only a decade of torturous time could reveal. A look glazed over with wanting, a wanting accompanying self-deprecation and grief of a past life. Her fingers went deeper each time she thought of the past but it was mostly because of the present and future she never got to have.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Present future

-and there she stood behind me in the mirror. Her hands at her broken neck holding it upright, a perfect image of yesterday and the days before. A replica of my haunting, the only difference caught by my forever-seared memory was her smile. Her smile had changed, its edges soft. Her lips did not continue to bleed, no flies escaped her maw, no trace of maggots in the lines of her teeth.

She seemed faded around each rim. Her silky white nightgown was faint, the bloody hands that stained her stomach crusted all over, and nowhere was the smell of new. Her skin was sinking deep down into her bones. She looked old and ragged.

Her sight tormenting once upon a time. Nevertheless, her screams and chipped nails had become ingrained in my cold skin. The thought of her leaving even if it was once wished and prayed for -my bloody knees and new layers of skin evidence of my failed test of faith, for I was never Christian till I needed so desperately to be- was something unfathomable.

She was what I lived by, she was my guilt, my weight to carry. My punishment for lack of believing, my never-ending consequence. She was to stay by my side and deep in my heart and mind, where she would travel through my veins and scrap my bones with her long and broken nails. Nausea guided her soul till her feet stomped their way to my brain where her stomach acid would smolder my cerebrum and ooze through my eyelids and throat. Each of my words smelled of her putrid scent.  A mixture of us both but mostly her, it was always her, or that's what I tell myself. Accepting any more faults would imply an even vaster issue or worst yet, issues.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

A mother's love.

Large stained glass windows, that's what first caught her attention. The glass was her mother's favorite, and her father wanted nothing but the best for the love of his life. Each color reflected against her skin. "Christ will protect you as long as you deserve to be protected. As long as you are what I want you to be you will be safe and loved. For that is my will and therefore Christ."

Her feet ached and the pressure of the weight on her scraped knees was too much of a burden on her frail frame.  Her nightgown was stained and ripped, it stunk of dust and reeked of her filth, her sweat making the yellow-ish gown stick to her skin. She vaguely remembered it being white, brand new, and important enough to delicately trace instead of grip in anxious fits.

Her wounds ailed with infection, the sight of pus dizzying her vision. She feared her consciousness would falter even if her wakefulness was slim at best. The old manor was loud with bloody prayer. Her breathing was becoming too much, her scent putrid to her nose. Her stomach tangled and her bones pushed against her skin, she could see each turn of bone, her skin far too thin. She was once round with fat, far too much for the average woman or so her mother would whisper in her ear with each tight hug.

She was all pale, but she remembered color, color to the skin of her flesh, an olive tone maybe, she just wasn't certain anymore. She could not remember anything that was the norm, of anything that once was. She was sick, sick in health, sick in mind, and sick with emotion. Awry once again, she doubted her mother, therefore, she doubted God, she'll burn, she'll burn for her blunder. One should never distrust God's will. The old manor was loud with desperate prayer. She was hanging on a thin thread of sanity, her old claims of truths and clear skies a twisted joke that struck her with irony. She was sick with emotion, sick with memory, and a sense of having lived and failed like she once did and continued to do. The old manor was used to her tears of woe. She cried, the wooden floor below wet with the content of her bladder. The skin of her throat was burned, raw, and white, the first layer of skin scraped away. The pressure was too great. She just wanted to die. Living was the gift that God blessed upon her, she would forever cherish it and embrace it. Eternal rest, damnation for her sins. She ached more than ever for punishment.  Retribution for her actions, for she was a sinner and the rosary clutched in her bleeding hand burned her cuts. The old manor smelled of her soiled clothes, it smelled of her old tears and her new cuts and her first meal and felt of her first steps. It looked like the grief in her eyes at having to give herself to a life of worship for something she deep beneath did not believe in. It tasted of doubt. The old manor was loud, loud with her wails, and loud with silence once her body failed to keep her awake. The old manor was loud with her prayer for the years she was alive and secluded. The large stained windows were her mother's favorite.

" Do you like them, Brutus?" Her mother smiled, but she noticed it didn't quite reach her eyes "If you love them, I will forever cherish them". The gleam that crossed her mother's eyes was something akin to penitence. "Here, you will become the very semblance of Christ" her voice was lustful with ambition "Here I will learn to love you, here you will be useful or you will be nothing". The pointed arch of the cupola was caving in.  The manor was quiet. It was old, clogged with dust, stained with fear and dreams that never had the right to be. The quiet old manor walls no longer echoed prayer. It was quiet, with broken stained windows and a broken and bloated mass on its brick and flooded floor.

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Pink man

I was always attracted to the oddity of situations and enticed by the flaws of contradiction and most of all people. In a world where flying wasn't an impossibility, but a pink man was unthinkable. A man of pink was made of flesh and bone, not steel and gear. Smelling of cotton and sweets. You could always hear the tap of his heel and not of his whole foot. It was like a reflex the way my shoulders tensed, and my hands smothered with sweat. I can remember the taste of bile in my mouth and the sensation of its course in my throat. The sound of his husky voice in my ear whispering, and the distant memory of my whimpers. My bones caved in on themselves in his presence and my stomach solidified. It was love; it was care in the vilest way.

His expectations were high above my head, and I was smothered by them hidden within their shadow. I was once able to trace the lines of the stars with my finger. Scrap of star dust but now all I have is numbs. I lived thinking love was acid and the swallowing of glass. The day I felt a foreign warmth in his lips and the shadow of perfume on the edge of his jaw, I loved him as he loved me, with the passion of an artist, the love of a mother molding her scorn. We became equal, a match made in Tophet. There was a calmness and tranquility in the impartiality of our shared ill-treatment. L'extrémité du monde, the end finally came. The end of the play began, and we danced with bare feet, each turn of a swing left a permanent bruise on my skin. The rain poured on us both and slowed our fast pace. I could feel the rattle of my bones, the sound of them cracking making me flinch. He left just as he came, like time, unforgiving.  

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Blue lady

I was always attracted to the oddity of situations and enticed by the flaws of contradiction and most of all people. In a world where flying wasn't an impossibility, but a blue lady was unthinkable. A lady of blue was made of metal and rust, not of flesh and bone. Smelling of blood and thick bluntness. You could hear the steps of her foot but not the clink of a heel. It was like a magnetic pulse, static in my fingers and an ache in between my legs. After the decomposition of my skin and the settlement of tree roots on my spine, I was given breath. My eyes opened like they once did to morning rays. My senses returned but dulled, muddy by the ground and my body felt light as it never was. The cracks in my skin were gone and replaced by plump and smooth almond skin. My hair flowed and no longer stuck to my neck in a clammy and bloody mess. There was no smell of bitter vendetta in the breeze. Everything was fresh but it wasn't even air, there was no need to breathe I was dead, in a state of in-between. That's how I met the lady in blue, she carried herself firm and her hands were made of bolts and steel gear.  

[tang3rin3dr3am]

Just a thought

I see her through every window. In her I see who you longed for while in my presence.

The way she moved through life Is who I want to be. The way she sways is who you used to love; I could never be anybody but me.

I fear her, the power she holds is tremendous. She has the skill I now realize I don't have and never will. She has the power to take you and never let you go.

She's who I thought I was. She's who I once feared so much. I've become exactly what I never wanted to be, a bitter bitch.