antes que o sol se ponha para sempre

before the sun sets once and for all collection of texts, poems and thoughts

[beforethesunsetsforever]

There’s blood dripping down my legs again.

My grandmother says i have child-bearing hips; you’ll be thankful for them in the future, you know. She’s so small and getting thinner by the day; I look like a giant near her. I barely reach 5 feet on a good day. She says i need to loose weight.

She birthed three boys and lost would-be twins among the way. We talk of periods and menopause; she used to be bedridden from the pain. I feel it echoing fifty years into time; our suffering is the same.

My grandmother has a dentistry degree; she took her signature from it and chained it to a marriage certificate, moved to a state she’d never been before. I believe love should be liberating. I wonder if she feels the same.

My grandfather leaves the table. He doesn’t know what happens to the dishes.

I am 22 and have never been in love. She asks me about boyfriends, each time with less hope. She looks at the rolls in my stomach, the fullness in my face, the broadness of my hips.

She says i have child bearing hips. She says i need to loose weight. I wonder if all i’m worth is what i could loose; what i could give. I wonder if she applies those patterns to herself. Is the disgusted or is she envious?

There’s blood dripping down my legs again.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

I’m standing on the edge of a new life again,

getting ready to jump.

It’s the fourth ou fifth time in five or six years, and I am so

tired. But I’m also with my feet near the ledge.

I’m tired of new beginnings, I say.

But beggars can’t be choosers and all I do is beg

for a home, for warmth, for someone to take me by the hand and live my life for me,

to pick where to go and what to do and what to think

so none of it is my fault.

It tells me to jump. I love heights, but I’m terrified of the falling,

and my stomach is already on my knees again

along with by will, my past, myself.

All of it is temporary now.

I’m not allowed to drill the walls, not allowed to have more than I can pack,

not allowed to take anything with me except my feet and my anxiety.

Tell me to stay. Tell me to go back

to somewhere I belong. Let me find a place to call home.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

satisfaction, satisfaction

is anyone ever really satisfied?

we drag ourselves through life as time runs us by, hoping for forest fires out of every candle we can reach

i long for so much, yearn for everything this world convinced me is possible

the joy, the pain, the stars, the bottom of the ocean; the fullness inside my chest

and yet,

they tell me to be satisfied with what i have.

is anyone ever really satisfied

with haunting this empty houses while summers and winters glow outside

while the walls glisten with places for portraits of memories we’re yet to make,

memories we dreamt only to see them drop in the canyon of awakeness through the slippery haze in our fingers

in anyone ever really satisfied

with coming home to people who love you politely,

when we know we hope, we fear there exists wild love out there, all encompassing and all mighty

but hopefully not all imaginary.

satisfaction, satisfaction

they tell me to be gratefull for what i have.

is anyone ever really satisfied with only plain old boring satisfaction?

[soracities]

there is love in this story. even in its most brutal end. there is love in the story. how? where? here: here in me telling it to you, in spite of everything. because of everything.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

Cynicism, let me have the ghosts again

my house creeks and cracks ‘till the darkest hours, ‘till the morning

shadows and noises haunting this rooms like it remembers what it was before

i know it’s the wood, the light, the dancing of things

i’m not afraid anymore, not since I was a kid

but the creeks and cracks are here, and maybe, they really are a ghost

or a being too old to be named, following me around

like the owner and his cranky cat.

maybe as a kid i could feel it, could smell it, could even see it

my house is still haunted, and i’m just to old to play with cursed things.

bring me the dancing demons! bring me the chatty spirits!

let me know again that i’m not alone, never alone in these rooms

when mom and dad were working you took care of me, and i was afraid

as we tend to fear the things we don’t understand

but now, the house is empty of whispers and soft footsteps

and there’s only the wood, the light, and the dancing of things.

one day, when the cynicism melts and i go back to believing,

we will dance, and dance, and dance

me and my ghosts, making music out of noise once more.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

gone are the days when

a single glance from you would fill me up with poetry

fuil me full of words, of mist and morning drop.

now you rain all around me while

my tongue remains stuck to it’s ceiling,

a desert made from the dryness of put-out fires and evening dust.

i built up whole castles on the quicksand of midnight lovers,

set my lookout on the highest tower waiting for the first sparkle

throwing down my hair for silver coins i mistake for shining armor.

it is my eagerness that keeps me up here,

high and dry and full of words

bleeding out to the wrong hearts, tearing up new scars,

on skin already tender.

looking for a soft epilogue

i cut my fingers on paper, the scent of iron and stardust

taking over the opening page:

we barely began, love.

let the night chill set before the morning drop takes her place.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

I’ll leave my watch at home

this month has been hell.

you are living the worst time of your life

and I’ve only seen you twice since july,

once by a tombstone and again across a church.

but we texted this last few days

I’ll meet you tomorrow for coffee and ice cream

and I’ll leave my watch at home.

let no time exist while we are together,

let the hours stay still and pass only in our hearts.

hours are for 9 to 5s and washing machines

let us have only the wind, the sun, and our sticky fingers,

dry throats from talking too much.

i miss you. i love you. and this month has been hell.

what flavor ice cream do you want?

[beforethesunsetsforever]

we buried my friend’s brother today.

i’ve known her for eleven years. we met on the first day of school, both of us alone before the first bell, then never again. her brother was so much older, orbiting around our school projects and first drinks, stealing candy from our jars.

when i heard, out of town, my mother held me while i sobbed. i cried on the car, thinking i would miss the service, until the speed made my back stick to the leather. my father shaved an hour off the drive, his eyes finding mine in the review mirror while my mom fed me jelly beans.

i made it on time for the end. his favorite hat was on the coffin, and the friends we never manage to gather were together on the corner. Some of us had tissues, others water, but words were quiet and lacking. it took three cars to get all of us to the cemetery, a line of hands holding each other up. hands outstretched, waiting for you to take.

you weren’t crying. you weren’t doing much of anything, numb i think, and though i saw no tears on your face i felt some on my shoulder when i hugged you. or maybe you hugged me. i don’t know anymore. it’s a deeper kind of pain, i think, the one that numbs you. it dries and takes and leaves only desert behind.

i know nothing of grief, and very little of loss. i confess i grieved not him, but you, how happy you were the last time i saw you, how your life was full of joy and traced paths. for i may not know of grief, but i have a sister. i think the pains of siblinghood are somehow alike: we are never alone, for we have someone, until the moment when one of us is left behind. and from then on, paths get tangled and thinks get unmade.

i felt, today, the village we build around each other. from my father’s tears and my mother’s shaking hands, from our friends sobs and prayers and silences, from the flowers piled so high on his grave, you could only dream of the cement underneath. but did you feel it, too?

you were numb, and i feel useless, mostly because i am. what can make it better? can you tell me, when you don’t even know it yourself? how can we figure it out together? i want to be there, but maybe there is the worst place i can be, intruding on your pain.

we buried him at sunset, far from the city noise. there were only palm trees and birds, the soft wind, and a plane far above. it was a beautiful day, so perfect it hurt, so perfect it was all you could think of. she’ll have beautiful days again, soon.

she’ll be okay. she’s strong, and determined, and not alone, and this will not be what breaks her. not tomorrow, not next week or next month, but someday she’ll be fine.

today, though. today we buried my friend’s brother. and i know nothing of grief, of loss, of sorrow, but this: i’m sorry. i love you. i’m here.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

Honest realization i just had:

going through life being intentionally pessimistic about your chances on things you want so that, when they don’t work, you’re never disappointed and if they do you are pleasantly surprised,

is in fact self sabotage. damn it.

i really thought I had something going but turns out i was just undermining my potential my making myself believe i could never reach those things and-

[writing-prompt-s]

It was announced the prince was looking for a wife, but the baker girl didn’t care. That was until the very tired and sad-looking boy wearing a hoodie and sweatpants bit into a cherry tart, looked as if he was about to weep, and whispered: "She’s the one." Then a bunch of officials entered.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

“Is this what you always dreamt of doing? Baking?”

The boy had been sitting in front of the shop for over an hour, his posture even sadder-looking than the old falling-apart bench in the sidewalk. His hoodie and sweatpants looked new, clean, and there was no starvation in his face, at least not for food. But she’d lost count of the days she spent with that special kind of hunger behind her throat, so she carefully opened the grass-green door and asked if the boy would like to come inside.

Cherry tarts wouldn’t fill that particular emptiness, but being sad on an empty stomach would for sure be worse.

“Why do you ask? Having work problems?”

“Something like that.”

His eyes were huge and his his eyelashes even bigger, fanning his eyelids as he opened them. They were brown, brown like the walnut cream she made, the one with not-that-much chocolate that sells a lot in winter. He still hadn’t eaten the cherry tart she put in front of him. He just kept watching her work, cleaning her station, huge brown eyes fixed on broken-short nails.

“My mother was a baker.”

He smiled, a sad, sad thing.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Does it matter? It pays the bills. No one really does the job they want.”

“But if you could do anything, what would you do?”

“Does ‘not work at all’ count?”

“Sure, if you want to. But if you didn’t work at all, what would you do?”

She decided the boy was weird. But she was weird, too, so she stopped where she was scrubbing a stain in the counter, gaze lost in the people passing through the front windows.

“I would bake, I think.”

“But I thought you didn’t like baking?”

“I never said that.”

The boy turned his head to his right. He was looking at her as if he thought she was weird.

“I said my mother was a baker. And that no one does the job they want. But I think it’s because you start doing whatever it is you like doing, and you turn it into a job, and then you don’t like it so much anymore.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I liked baking with my mother.” She blinked, and the old shop was now an old kitchen, flour everywhere, the smell of burning sugar, mom’s raspy laugh. She blinked again. “Now I wake up at three in the morning to bake for people who don’t know what ‘thank you’ means. Still beats most other jobs, though.”

“Why? Because you like it?

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“And you keep answering them.”

“Because, well, it makes people happy, I think. Everyone likes a good pastry. I may not be saving the world, but no one really is, right? We’re all gonna be dead ‘cause of global warming or, like, mutated fish, before we turn 50.”

“That’s awfully pessimistic. We’re not going to die because of fish. It will surely be the microplastics.”

“That’ll be on the fish.”

“In all fairness… true.”

“You sound like an old men with too many degrees.”

“Anyway. If we’re all going die anyway, why keep baking? Shouldn’t we just, eat the fish already?”

“Now who’s pessimistic? And I can’t believe you’re asking me the meaning of life. I’m a baker, not a philosopher.”

“So you can’t have an opinion? Tell me anyway.”

The boy was definitely weird. His eyes were shining now, fixed on her face, huge and brown and interested. She went back to scrubbing.

“I think… I think life is as good as a collection of days. And we don’t need to ignore the bad days, but hang on and make sure there are more good days after them. More good days than bad ones, you know? And just… making people’s days a little better makes my day better. So I’ll keep baking. At least until the fish comes.”

The brown pools disappeared as the boy blinked. When they appeared again, fat drops of water were clinging to his lashes.

“That’s a really pretty way of thinking.”

“And you? If you could do anything, what would you do?”

“Not what my dad does, that’s for sure.”

“What does he do?”

“He makes decisions. All day.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad. We all do that. But answer the question, what would you like to do?”

He picked up a napkin, folding it with precision.

“I guess I would like to make people’s days a little better, too.”

He finally picked up the cherry tart, pinkie finger up. He bit, and a brave tear left his eyes, fighting the way down his face.

“God, this is a really fucking good pastry.” There were more tears after the first, flowing freely now. “Will you marry me?”

She almost didn’t even laugh. “Sure. But I won’t bake for the wedding.”

“I’m serious. You should be a queen. You’d be great at it.”

“I’m a baker.”

“So you keep saying. You’ll be a queen one day.”

“Well, suit yourself. But just so you know… I won’t bake at the coronation, either.”

*********

They came before opening hours the next day.

Three royal guards, dressed in rich crimson, gold lining their uniforms. They carried a fancy looking letter, which they handed her, but the curved letters were hell to read. She waited until one of them recited the message from their iPad.

The prince was looking for a wife. He had found one. She was to get on their car and proceed to the palace.

She politely declined, asked them about their mothers and lovers, offered some jelly tart and sent them on their way.

Before lunch, there were five others guards in front of her shop.

He only came by sundown, when she was closing, after a full day of baking and selling and sending fancy soldiers on their way. The boy was alone, and dressed pretty much the same: hoodie and sweatpants, and less sad looking eyes.

“You sent my guards home.”

“I gave them pastries.”

“And then sent them home.”

“Well, the pastries go better with tea. I don’t serve it here.”

He kept standing there, in the middle of the empty shop. He didn’t look like a prince. She stepped behind the counter and picked up a plate.

“You want a cherry or strawberry tart?”

“Cherry.”

“Figured. I had to google you, y’know.”

The brown eyes seemed to gleam, and he moved towards the high chairs.

“Why?”

“Well, when random people dressed in gold show up and say someone wants to marry you, you start to think you might have met that person before. When they say that person is the prince, and you realize you don’t know what he looks like, you google him.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing as exiting as a conversation about mutated fish, unfortunately.”

“Pity. He sounds like a bore.”

“I think he’s okay.”

There was silence for a while. Outside, the sun was way down, the city lights getting brighter by the second.

“Why do you want to marry me?”

He turned his head to the right, blinking like he still thought her weird.

“I told you yesterday. I think you should be queen.”

“I’m a baker.”

“So you told me.”

“I like baking. I don’t want to rule over anything.”

“You like baking, yes. And you can keep doing that here in your shop. But I need to marry, and I would like for my spouse to care about the right things.”

“And what would that be?”

“Making people’s days a little bit better. Even if it is one pastry at a time.”

The air on the shop seemed to stand still. It was mostly the same since her mother’s passing; stone floors, big windows, grass-green door. Falling-apart bench in the sidewalk.

Well. It seemed like a good deal.

“What would I need to do?”

“A lot of decisions.”

“Like your father.”

“Yes. And like me.”

“Would I still get to bake?”

“Yes. If you want to.”

“Okay then. I’ll marry you. Do you want another tart?”

“Depends. Are the mutated fish in stock?”

“Not until summer.”

“Disappointing. But we’ll make do until then.”

[beforethesunsetsforever]

this is not a love poem

but yesterday i rested my head in your shoulder and my leg over yours

and i’d never slept like that before but tonight i find myself missing it

us being alone, together, my soft fingers and your calloused hands.

this is not a love poem

but i am cold tonight, and it made me think how humans seek it without even knowing

the sound of a heartbeat underneath our ears, of someone’s skin underneath our fingertips

of someone next to me.

this is not a love poem

but we are still young

so maybe one day it could be.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

a picture:

the five of us, sprawled uncomfortably in a room while doing our own things, exhausted after 12+ hours of travel

we haven’t seen each other in six months.

let’s be quiet together for the comfort of having each other.

[vexheart]

[thoughtkick]

“You can be a good person with a kind heart, and still say no.”

— d.k.

[beforethesunsetsforever]

I’ve picked myself up out of the dirty floor, sang songs so loud until my voice was sore, spend nights and days reading, between tears and laughs, and baked myself cakes with flour in my hair.

I raised callous in my fingers, and loved each of them, for they make it easier to sew, write and paint. I rolled over green grass, got bitten by the ants, sat under the sun and moon and talked to them.

Don’t ever tell me, then, I can’t build a masterpiece, for with broken hours and restless hope I found I’m the only one I need.

[gothyeehaw]

y'all think about love?

[frawgs]

Every Single Waking Fucking Day Do I Think About Love

[beforethesunsetsforever]

And I want to scream — let my poetry be juvenile!

Let twitter threads bleed deep thought and graffiti predict the future!

Let our chats be full of rimes and talks of the universe and history!

Let pop songs be quoted like Shakespeare and tumblr posts be shown in museums!

Let the young do their art, unashamed of their wattpad accounts and reddit posts, of their little notebooks full of scribbles on pokemon and religion, of their fanfiction with more depth and care than original works!

(isn’t it just as original, though?)

And I want to scream — leave my poetry alone!

Don’t use my choice of weapon as an excuse to soften the blow.