I need to tell you about the weather, how kind he has been to me; about the insatiable reality that, on the other hand, remains brutal to my dreams (those left over) even after I have deposed ours.
Tell you about how I slowly realize that some things have never changed and others don’t need to.
Tell you that I went on and found, ahead, a poor world without you.
Life in black and white again – instead of complaining, I find that’s the best part: being able to color it again.
I was finally able to name the space I always asked for – loneliness; and the air I sought – asthma; I sought the peace I left home – I’ve been breaking the furniture, pulling my hair out.
I have to say that I repainted the canvases, made up with the yellow; I tuned the strings; I changed my nails for picks; I saved the books, moved the pictures.
I bought new vases and gave the garden another chance.
I threw away the calendars to live the days without seeing the weeks go by.
I removed the headphones to hear the sound of the city, and the love ones were just noise.
I forced my parents to accept my strike, I ran away.
I need to tell you what I saw down the road and how many times I got to the hospital.
The pounds I lost also sought freedom, I laugh counting the ribs.
God told the dogs to catch me so as not to finish your last pages – mutilated hands, discharge.
I warned the French that you abolished chance after the data failed.
I have to say that after the match, the first step was simple and it didn’t hurt, it hurt later, when I came back and I had to avoid our ways.
When I answered and needed I pretended.
When I heard and needed to forget.
When I spoke and the voice didn’t come out.
Needless to say, I’m empty but ready, like any calendar sheet waiting for new appointments – and the years go by.
I won. I finally won.
I won like the milk cartons at the bottom of the pantry.
I need to tell you that everything is different now and the lack of doing the same things proves to be real.
The increasingly dirty blank sheets are no longer a challenge, I always have something to say.
I never had to say so much without having to ask.
I was so talkative that the feet by the mouth stole the verses.
Therefore prose, not poemo.
Because those smiles are a flaw in fiction – that most of the pain was in the place I made it up to you – and I make up badly.
I need to say everything and I don’t want to ask anything.
I already know everything I don’t need to know, so I also write what didn’t need to be written.
I’m home, but I’m leaving.
“I’m leaving!” I say to the walls that answer me in an echo of open vowels
Written by: @naoperina
Translate by: @rascunhodraft