Before being born as a girl, I was a ghost

Loneliness has the coldest hands
I've ever felt but it's alright because
dead bodies aren't warm either.
Dead bodies are cold but the
ever-lasting touch of loneliness is
incisively and annihilatingly colder.
You were the best teacher I had and
I have mastered to accept loneliness
arms around my waist like the leaves
have mastered their ephemeral
dance among the majestic wind.

Hole-filled

I don't think anyone else will leave a 

vortex as massive as he did -

No one will be able to 

fill the ever expanding, vortex-like 

and infected wound that absorbs 

everything into nothingness. 

It itches, it burns, it aches 

and swallow me whole among 

everything else around.

It's easy to find myself hearing 

the wind whispering while it 

passes through my hole-filled body, 

giving birth to ominously haunting tunes

and telling me evil tales.

Remember that day when you've 

told me that life goes on? Indeed it does,

but the itchiness of a scar that 

makes you want to wither is often

carried and nursed like a baby during a lifetime. 

It was no lie when I told you that 

you would last in my life 

like an unbreakable glass. 

loving you have always felt like departure

Overdose Delusion

There's always too much information to process: a brain overloaded with nightmarish and vile memories, always removing past from where it belongs and placing it in places like under my bed and at the back of my ear. There's too much screaming scattered inside and outside my head.

Anxiety release

Poeple keep asking me why do I clean my room so often and why do I organise it so neatly. The truth that no one knows, nor thought about, is that I organise my room hoping that some day I'll be able to organise my life just as well.


Even knowing I won't.

First you'll swallow it to ease your pain. With time, you'll swallow it just to begin the day.

Give me a lie to stitch the ever itching wound.

Detaching and throwing old things away

hoping that this way

the old feeling of love

(my archaic love for him) 

will as well be thrown away.

Age 13 - "Things were fine, then I woke up." 

 Age 15 - "Things were awful even in my sleep." 

Age 18 - "I no longer sleep, afraid of nightmares."

Journal Fragments #3

I wanted to kiss the softest spot of his neck, the one who is deeply connected to the darkest part of his being and make him feel like poetry. [...] I lurk in the unfathomable depths of the abyss and he makes me feel like the eeriest poesy.

Ribcage

I've been scared for so long.
I've been scarred for so long.
I am scared to the point I can no longer hold my pen without dropping it due to my shaking hands and shivering body. I can hear my own heart severely pounding - rather than beating - against my ribcage. It wants to find its own way out of my slightly withered body, among the crimson pulsing vein, ready to clog the sink and the tiniest fragments of myself.

Delicio-me em minha dor assim como alguém agoniza incessavelmente com o terror de uma veia recém aberta.

Wounded Child

A pale-milk and bloodstained child

hid behind white curtains pretending 

to be a ghost, because then maybe 

"they" would go away without hurting her. 

Little she knew about the death

she was about to face.

Little she knew about the ghost 

she would become.

There's someone in my head, but it's not me.

"I wonder how so much hate can fit inside a person; I wonder how I haven't flooded everything around me with hate."
"You already have, dearest. Everytime you cut, burn or punch yourself, everytime you starve or push people away, that is when there's no longer space for hatred inside yourself."

With eyes wide open

I can feel my neck artery

pulsing, jumping, 

trying to free itself and 

flood the bathtub with its

imposing crimsoness. 

My hands are shaking and 

I can barely write; 

all I wanted was to free this

goddamn artery and be free;

free of the agony of existing, 

of the knots in my stomach and 

spider nests in my throat. 

All I wanted was to be free of 

the pain, the guilty and be able 

to shut my eyes and finally rest.

Because in death, one cannot reach me,

touch me, or make me feel

like I am the most disgusting 

ghostly monster that has ever existed.

Never forgive, never forget

I can always see that place in my dreams. 

I can always see that person. 

I can always hear her voice.

Dreaming of being in a slaughter house 

watching people being tortured 

to death can be fun, but 

when I realised exactly where I was, 

I was the one being slaughtered by memories; 

in my deepest being 

it all leads to her. It all leads to him. 

It all leads to a deep ever bleeding 

wound that never heals, 

the wound what is slowly killing me 

and has always been. 

I will never forgive, I will never forget. 

I will never be touched. 

I cannot be touched. 

I cannot be forced. Not again. 

Please,

not ever again. 

Because in my deepest self, 

in my daily dreams, she follows me 

everywhere; she touches me everywhere; 

I can no longer sleep. 

Like a ghost, she visits me 

every night, reminding me of what she's done.

And she does it again. And again. 

When I wake up crying, all I can think of 

is "please, don't rape me again".

Even the water I just drank went half way down painfully and it seems to be stuck there, longing to get out of my being, making me feel nauseous. I am boiling inside myself and all I want is to vomit the water and the life out of me.

Encontrado num caderno antigo

Eu gosto de manhãs de domingo.
Gosto do ar gelado e fresco.
Do café quentinho.
Da sensação morna que fica em mim.
Sensação de que não preciso de vida, não preciso de morte.
Não preciso de sangue, nem de cortes.

A small poem about scarred souls

I could see in his eyes the suffering,

I could notice it in his silence. 

It's curious. 

We both know about our conditions 

yet we barely know each other. 

And there's always this silent agreement 

hovering in the air. 

Journal fragments #1

I feel like today is one of those days that every single thing I do feels either wrong or useless. Everything, even the tiniest ones are upsetting me; I feel agony growing stronger & stronger & placing its hands around my throat, pressing it hard, making it hard to breath.. I am scared...

Moonchild

Maybe I am angry because I am jealous. 

Because he came to me 

seeking for help and advices, 

something I never did and could never do. 

For years I could never figure out 

why exactly.

Maybe the lack of true friends and 

the incapability to trust people; 

I was never wrong, but the thing is, 

I cannot seek help mostly because I don't deserve it. 

Because I am sinking deeper and deeper 

in an endless and dark ocean:

I am not worthy of being rescued. 

It makes me angrier hating myself so much 

and always looking up for destruction.

I feel small and impotent, and at this point, 

I can do nothing but stare blankly 

at the darkness of the ocean 

during an endless fall. 

I am heavy and the fear has settled in me 

like a second skin.

numb me away

Just like any other memory

I hoped it to fade away.

But it doesn't, 

& it is wrapped on my sleeves 

always showing on the way I wear my wounds.

There isn't enough amount of meds to numb me, to drag those memories away from me.

But it isn't just a memory is it? It's like a nightmare following me everywhere,

showing itself on how alert I am not only before bedtime. 

To my favourite zombie girl

Isn't it odd? This feeling of amusement and gratefulness that swallow us whole and leave us with no words besides 'thank you'. I suppose it is good and bad at the same time; bad for not knowing how to put in words such a delightful gratitude, and good because we have felt it. We feel it, and feeling it is more important. I suppose that we writers have a difficult relationship with words and expressing ourselves through them. A simple 'thank you' doesn't seem enough, yet it seems that every other word of gratitude doesn't fit quite well, so let me tell you: thank you, I feel grateful. 

I truly feel. 

I feel.

Every time I read one of my writings I feel pathetic and it doesn't surprise me that it took me so long to realise why. It's because I write about pathetic people: me and my deepest other selves.

It's difficult when you think you aren't worth of good things, good people or moments. When you think all you are worth of is a big abyss of punishment...
..Realising that is a big step, I have to admit, yet I only realise that when things aren't happening. Because when they are, I cannot see it, everything is automatic and it seems to be the ultimate truth.
Isn't fair to be taught to hate yourself and others since you were born. But I suppose world isn't a fair place whatsoever.

Endlessly

Made of burnt memories and torn pages from old books, a soul quietly wandered in. Made of piercing words and cigarette smoke, the lonely soul watched rushed bodies and worried faces through emptied glassy eyes. Made of things that people threw away hopelessly, never noticed by physical forms of existence, the soul quietly wandered... endlessly.

About a boy & ephemeral existence

I used to kiss a boy sometimes, a boy that kissed me a lot. The only boy that could make every bit of my body exists with his sweet lips.

Remnants

I still have remnants of you in me, just like the morning after of the purest cocaine I've ever snorted. You unravelled me and have poured your deepest self just like dust and ravelled me again. You're stuck here just like an addict is stuck in a vicious cycle and I am also desperate: just like an addict on his way to buy his sweet powder. I want you in. I want you out. You're all over me, even in my bloodstream. Then you are out, but not really, not truly, not entirely: there are fragments among my blood and on my mind. It always appears on my skin in the way I bruise and on my bones whenever I die.

About OCD and another things

It doesn't matter how many showers you take

how many times you wash your hands before a meal

or even during the day

because the dirt won't go away.

You'll have to see the blood coming out of your skin

after washing and scratching so many times.

You'll have to wash it again and again

because the sweet and fresh scent of your soap

seems to no longer mask

the delicate and natural scent of your skin

that to your nose 

seems to smell like a dead and putrefied body,

your dead body.

Because the dirt is underneath your skin

and it also runs in your bloodstream

and sometimes you just feel like

peeling off your body's skin.

It won't be okay until you get damaged,

it won't settle down for the day

or at least for the hour unless

it leads you to soreness.

Because the dirt is inside you

and every time you open a clean cut

and try to remove the dirt among the blood

you won't have done much.

Your body is a bloody machine,

a dirt generator

and for every time you remove a little

it will generate more to fill up the gap

just like a scar tissue.

It'll always be there.

The putrid lake inside yourself

and the impure thoughts inside your mind

it doesn't matter how clean your skin seems

to other points of view.

Mostly

I miss the cigarettes

before bed in a cold night. 

I miss you waiting for me to undress, 

the way your hair danced 

among the cold perpetual wind.

Mostly

I miss how you whispered 

in my ears your favourite poems 

and how the tiny little words pierced 

my whole body,

as if it were the almighty rain

and its powerful drops.

I miss gazing at your freckled face

like gazing into a night sky filled with stars,

because

you had not only the stars 

but also the stillness,

the calmness, and the mystery

on your face, and not only there

but in your acts,

in the way you made things less boring,

over and over again.