Symbolic violence

When I was little my dad took a hammer.
In his hands, it moved fast and weightless, efficiently.
The golden ring shines on his finger.
On the exterior it has engraved intertwined leaves
inside, in tiny calligraphy letters, my mother's name.
His hand places the ring on the stone
and then the hammer on the ring, one, two, three, four, five, and many other numbers I haven't learnt how to count yet.
He repeats the task until the ring is no longer a ring but a flat piece of yellow tin.
Tiny cracks on the border, the leaves almost erased, my mother's name trapped inside two pieces of metal.
A crucifix, a David's star, a miniature gold hand, and my mother's name trapped in a cage of gold that used to be a ring.
These are the charms hanging in a golden chain around my father's neck.

Cracks

Photo By Emilie Trouillet, https://www.flickr.com/photos/ahbahbravo/

I am not Ofelia, eyes fixed on the ceiling,
a bunch of wild flowers in the bath tube.

I am not a suicidal blonde,

sleeping a barbituric dream.
 

I am not the princes in the marble tower,

I am not the object of desire.

I know I am not a damsel in distress
                                                         and I know
that distresses you because I can see.

I can see the stains on your blue suit,
the worn mask of charm
the cracks in your leather boots,
the black line of dirth and sweet around your neck.

Dark materials

Image from: http://hubblesite.org

He used to call her a black hole
                                                an 'energy sucker'

What a pity!
He never realized,

                            she was  A dark galaxy

Give me hope in silence

Give me hope in silence It's easier; It's kinder...

that sort of feeling

I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.

— Haruki Murakami (Sputnik Sweetheart)

Insomnia

The wind is singing outside
its summer song.

I have been laying here
drugged by your smell of warm skin.

I can feel the rhythmic pumping of our blood,
yours precise like my swiss watch,
mine stumbling like a jazz syncopation

I want to be outside
singing with the win.

Flying   getting tangled in the branches   flying
running mad
untamed.

I will miss

Shopie Calle, Les Dormeurs

Wrapped in the sheets
I follow with my fingers the shape of the wrinkles
drawing the traces of your missing body.

In this bed of the size of two oceans
something is missing...
your bones lay in other shores,
your smell imprinted in some other's pillow,
         only time traveling I may be able to reach your warm.

I miss your flemish hands around my waist...
cold feet and giggling good nights...
your smile under the covers...
our fingers touching

Tonight the sound of the wind on my window
will put me to sleep
I listen, then I feel your fingers running down my spine,
as real as the branches caressed by the wind
singing a loving song.