No es que me avergüence
(que ciertamente, debería)
pero no estoy listo para ser outeado
como tu fan #1
Haciéndote desear no saber leer desde 1992
No es que me avergüence
(que ciertamente, debería)
pero no estoy listo para ser outeado
como tu fan #1
This memory of mine doesn’t work in the way I want. And that is, when it does seem to work. When it doesn’t, it leads some to believe that I may be farther than I appear.
I’ve thought about you, the collective you, and all the things that could have happened, had I stayed on the path a little longer. Not better things, but different.
I miss moments, sparks in a quiet existence. And yet, I don’t truly miss anything, for often times I know when it is. It is me who doesn’t know how to swim back to that river.
I’m ashamed of the things i remember: great meaning and deep feelings, encapsulated in trivial and sometimes vulgar moments that no one would look at twice; I play them ad nauseam in my head.
Tengo muchas opiniones erradas sobre temas variados.
That’s it.
Need a palate cleanser for your tongue,
the memory won’t let me live.
Dulled, can’t tell if likey.
Good taste? Mid taste? Qué ‘taste miendo?
I would feel the same about mälort
if it tasted like mango and spices.
Your sleepwalking in the mornings.
The hardness of your shell.
How strict you ran that kitchen.
The way your presence and absence echoed in every sense.
[1] We know this thanks to numerous accounts left by Tóvar Rigo, a Mexican diver from Matamoros Tamaulipas who was falsely accused of Sirenicide, imprisoned and released by Neptune in the late 20th century.
But so is heaven and earth.
Ripples in time and space
Myope to the soon
Barely seeing the now
Second per second
Adrift
And specially to my future biographer: please note.
With regards to life-long enemies, arch-nemesis and the likes.
Sworn scorn and oaths to gods immemorial.
if your grievances aren’t intersectional at least,
You never truly hated me.