Fogo & Carmesim

[fogoecarmesim]

Cognitive Dissonance

it's 4am of a tuesday and i push my fingers so hard and deep into this almost one year-old wound and i know ive grown so much since the last time we spoke and yet the pain hits just as much and i cry for hours about someone i now know is miles and miles and miles away and i don't know if it's the best or worse news of it all I just know ive prayed for an answer since saturday but all I hear are the cars on the street.

[fogoecarmesim]

Don't Forget Me

There hasn't been a night you didn't cross my mind in weeks. And it doesn't matter I'm no longer in love, I still have to drink myself into oblivion every time. Sometimes I wish so hard any thought of me would me pop in your head and you would reach me. It hurts to hold myself not to do it first when I'm alone at night. I've been too prone to addiction since birth and you know it too well. Guess you just didn't know substances weren't the biggest concern to me. The pills haven't been helping. Of course, I no longer cry like a child if I take them, but the bitterness remains, the burning in my throat. I still whisper your name sometimes, hoping it would pass, but without your answer, there's nothing I can do. And you know, I've been begging Freyja for you to miss me enough to come back. I don't really care if it's all been a game to you... My bed has never been the same since you left.

[fogoecarmesim]

One Woman Drinking Games

He makes me happy, he does. He also makes me want to punch myself in the head, but I believe that's my fault. I guess he caught me unprepared or maybe just so sure of my preparation that love was like an unexpected tsunami. But I told him I was a sleeping volcano, I did. Guess I just forgot how much lava burned. And it was so obvious, so clear, I still cannot believe he didn't see it coming either. How could he give up so easily on us and still not necessarily give up on me? I don't want to do his girl or his relationship any harm, but I am so not sure I can be his crowbar for now. No, I don't mind him kissing or fucking whoever he wants. I actually prefer it if it makes him happy. I even cheer for him. But I just cannot believe his "I love you" when it's also said to another mouth. Because then I make comparisons. Then I feel I'm less worthy of him. Then I feel he just says it like "good morning" and I take love so very serious. And I wonder if any of it was any true or was I just his past time that became trouble. And yet he is still so patient with me. And I freak out so much and I can't stop talking and he doesn't hate me for that and I just wish he did sometimes. You see, I can handle hate. And I can handle love. I just can't handle whatever is in between because it just screams indifference. He asks me to stop feeling this way, but how can I do this without abandoning the one thing that's kept me so less lonely these past months? How I can be near him and not hold him? How do I know if any of what he said was real? Why can he not toss me aside?

[truantraver]

You don’t have to be afraid of silence, Clementine. Constantly talking isn’t necessarily communicating.

Charlie Kaufman - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (via truantraver)

[fogoecarmesim]

Sunday School

I see her flash my front door neighbours a smile as we walked up the stairs with our arms intertwined. “Look who’s early” Mrs. Jones whispers. It is news to them I’m here at all, but no, not her. My petite lady was destined to become a nun, that’s what everyone thought. If they only really saw how much spare time she spent in her confessions… A demon would be a lot closer, not that I saw that as a good thing. But God’s sake, those bright red lips meant heaven alone. Prayers were never the same. If I truly were religious, though, I would forbid her to say God’s name. She pulls me to the very last bench of the chapel and in less than 10 minutes, all seats in front of us are taken. There are so many familiar faces from when my parents used to drag me here before they passed away. The same place I now sit is where I used to fall asleep and hope the priest wouldn’t see me. The old man is still the same, but it looked like he aged twenty instead of ten years. She squeezes my hand and he asks us all to get on our knees and pray. She is quick to do it, but once I was to copy her, she stops me with her tiny hand on my tights. The pale of her skin contrasts with my long green skirt. The room is silent, the priest isn’t looking and I try to read the expression in her face. She gives a devilish grin and pulls up my skirt softly. I do not move. She separates my legs and hides herself between them. Time is up and the priests asks everyone to stand up. She squeezes my knee so I do it. Once everyone is singing, her hands reaches the sides of my panties, bringing them down. I try to clap along with the crowd but once her fingers caress my damp pussy it’s hard to keep rhythm. It’s not the first time she does it because she knows exactly what to do. This isn’t what they teach in Sunday School, I presume. He thumb goes around my clit hood and I feel chills all over my body. Her fingers are playful with my pubes, my lips, my clit… Until she puts them inside me. Two at once. By then we have to sit and I sink on the bench with my legs still open and the minx under my skirt. The priest is giving a sermon, but I am unable to actually grasp any meaning. The first time I feel her tongue against my vulva my legs twitch and I can notice her held laugh. There is no time to waste. She picks up from where she left and I hold tight to the bench. I hear people answering to something along a prayer and try to see if anyone notices when I can finally let a moan slip. She builds up inside me like the Holy Spirit, I wish I could sing hymns about this feeling. She has me on the brink and now I could build her an altar and worship everyday. My body is filled with her and once they sing the final one, I’m speaking in tongues. People around look at me amazed. Seems like no one notices her absence. There’s only one God and it is right beneath me.

[fogoecarmesim]

I give myself five days to forget you. On the first day I rust. On the second I wilt. On the third day I sit with friends but I think about your tongue. I clean my room on the fourth day. I clean my body on the fourth day. I try to replace your scent on the fourth day. The fifth day, I adorn myself like the mouth of an inmate. A wedding singer dressed in borrowed gold. The midas of cheap metal. Tinsel in the middle of summer. Crevice glitter, two days after the party. I glow the way unwanted things do, a neon sign that reads: Come, I still taste like someone else’s mouth.

Warsan Shire, "Residue"

[fogoecarmesim]

Liebe ist für alle da.

"Meu corpo é um templo, mas eu odeio tudo que é sagrado", um dia disse com a boca cheia. Mal sabia eu que ocultava tanta religiosidade. Minha boca como o sangue de um messias, falando línguas. O laquê misturando com o suor, estragando o penteado. O sutiã rendado jogado. As meia 7/8 agarradas às minhas coxas grossas. Puxo o fio dental de lado e entro no Nirvana. O incenso queima com as velas e minha própria voz rege um mantra de gemidos ideal para levar-me ao alfa. Ponho de lado qualquer outra pessoa, homem, mulher, seja o que for. Meu amor é só meu e não há pessoa melhor para dar. Gozo e sorrio pro espelho. Mandaram eu me foder, então o fiz.

[fogoecarmesim]

A Motion Picture of Goodbyes

Scene 1 - ACTION! He holds me tighter than anyone has ever done before, even though his disease made his arms as weak as cardboard. It is the last time he holds me before I cut to a couple of years later and his motionless face is surrounded by flowers. I leave him with my scars wide open. I erase his features from my mind, but the pain remains the same. I’m a widow for years. CUT! Scene 2 - ACTION! I thought I would be fine after a couple of years, but he appears like a lost boy I just can’t leave on the street. His touch makes me twitch too often… Until we experience near death together and I can finally taste someone alive. The day he leaves me, I sob hysterically. We only lived with each other through suffering. I get every type of homicidal thoughts. His perfume haunts me like my own shadow. I drug myself into oblivion. CUT! Scene 3 - ACTION! I see her naked body through the mirror. That’s a painting I wish not forgetting. She kisses me on the cheek as she leaves. Things wouldn’t be the same anymore. CUT! Scene 4 - ACTION! It’s so brief. He lights up my joints and holds me through the thunderstorm. That peck was a goodbye to the boy I once knew. His face is of a stranger now. CUT! Scene 5 - ACTION! His hands through my hair make me forget about everything else. For once, I know love is about letting go. Kissing him always feels like a memory. Cocaine drove us apart. I hope he knows that now when he texts me late at night. CUT! Scene 6 - ACTION! I make promises I can’t keep. He still haunts me in my dreams. Freyja can be more unforgiving than him. The heart-shaped stone I still keep close to my heart. I make too many mistakes. He forgives me eventually, but it never feels like it. I sin one last time. I know I’ll never see him again. CUT! Scene 7 - ACTION! She probably deserves no lines. Such a shame. CUT! Scene 8 - ACTION! He lures me into this. I think I’m paranoid all the time. The sex makes me cum three times, yet it feels wrong later. I still owe him for the nights crying on the phone. He knows all my secrets, I still don’t know if I trust him. I now leave him knowing this will be his last year. “I love you, little one” he whispers again. CUT! Scene 9 - ACTION! I’m too sane to have gotten myself into this. A sin never felt so good. He touches me and puts me in a high fever. I can’t help but kiss him, want him. There’s so much at risk. I kiss him “see you soon” at the airport and my heart aches at each step. That’s how I know I’m fucked. I’m not sure I’m as sane as I thought. CUT! Scene 10 - ACTION! He’s always been there. Through each and every scene. We are never the ones to talk about drama. He can make me laugh at any time… Even now? I feel like I’m losing a brother. I hug and kiss him so hard I probably leave marks. I just wish he wouldn’t forget me first. This is the first taste of leaving definitively my comfort zone. On my ride home, his favourite artist plays my favourite song. I cry like a little girl. CUT!

To be continued…

[fogoecarmesim]

I think I'm breaking down again

No space for breathing I'm sucked out of my chest Lighting fails and I see my body beneath Sobbing, withering The carpet stained and the clothes scattered Weight pounding heavier through my breast "Liar, cheat, worthless, undeserving" My head pulls myself back in I scream aloud because there's no one home Is that what is like to be out there alone?

[fogoecarmesim]

Catrina's Lament

I lay my head on the coffin bed There's much I'm afraid, but little I regret Now the same old girl is indeed back Her fingers shivering, her skin bleeding red There's much more to death than trying to forget A best friend addict or a writer going mad... About dying, though, I seem to recall There's no pain, in fact, there's nothing there at all That must be while I'm crying with my back against the wall The bitterness of an existence so small It's over... I guess... So where's the Inferno's hall?

[fogoecarmesim]

Deathbed

She lays her head against my tummy, her black curly hair sprayed out like the autumn leaves outside. Her fingers travel down my sides until my tights.

“I hadn’t noticed them before” she whispers softly, I try to hide my discomfort as she touches my already whitened scars, hidden within my pale skin. Her fingertips follow along the lines of moments I still try hard to forget. Every inch, a nightmare. “Do you miss them?”

“No” I lie.

Every now and then I still fantasize about the sharpness breaking skin, as the crimson liquid slowly stains with the feeling of comfort and relief. I think of it sticking against the fabric of my shorts as I jog around the block, constantly reminding me of what controlling my pain feels like. I dream of the puffiness and redness of the deep wounds as I undress, marking me as a white canvas with red-colored drawings all over.

She turns her head face me and smile like an infant. I try to smile back and she goes back to her initial positions, now running her fingers through my trimmed blond curls.

“I wonder what kissing death feels like” they trace along my opening, coming back damp.

I sit her up and put her under me. I make a trail of wet kisses down her tanned neck. One of my hands traps both her wrists. She moans loudly.

“I wouldn’t know. We’ve only pecked” I murmur in between her moans. As soon as I hit her breasts, the conversation dies out.

 I get the call a week later, her mother is crying on the phone. We meet for the last time. Her thick red lips barely open and her hair revolved by daisies. I can only handle five seconds before walking away.

I think I forgot to tell her you cannot kiss death without it kissing you back.

 Such a waste.

[fogoecarmesim]

Revelry

Eu te odeio eu te odeio eu te odeio tanto, no meio de gemidos ofegantes. O silêncio depois do tapa ecoando na imensidão do caos. As pernas, uma hora correndo, felino de cachorro, ou cachorro de felino, quem poderia dizer? Não há onisciência na narração. De ambos. Bem, essas mesmas pernas engatadas em ombros, os braços presos pelas outras patas. Seu nome em alguma parte e gozo, pleno gozo. Repleto de ódio, sim, mas conforto talvez, liberação de um fantasma que seguia com o rosto, o nome talvez esquecido, na ponta da língua, talvez, nos gritos, gemidos. Uma volta? Despedida? Importa, de verdade? Eu só quero te matar de foder.

[nightcrimson]

Metapoema

Caneta, cigarro, cafeína. Espero que com um trago venha a inspiração… Talvez porque dizem todos os poetas serem tristes E eu tenha lido tanto Charles Bukowski Que meu café tenha se tornado uísque.

Escrevo sem rimas, sem métrica. Escrevo como o sangue jorra de um hemofílico. Escrevo porque a dor já não cabe em mim. Escrevo porque preciso saber se ainda há pulso Quando falha a respiração.

Escrevo porque escrever é um orgasmo: Me cansa, me esgota, me satisfaz, Respiro, por alguns momentos apenas, E depois de um copo d’água, Eu quero é mais!

É expurgar de mim todas as vozes, Silenciar por poucos minutos os murmúrios, Aqueles que alimentam a insônia… Porque todo poeta, além de infeliz, Tem problemas de sono.

Por que poesia? Porque sinto, E sinto muito, Tanto que apenas figuras de linguagem podem representar… Ou um grito estampado no papel.

Porque meus poemas são lágrimas não derramadas, São gritos calados, beijos não dados, Sangue, gozo, morte, Fracasso, drogas, arte, Amor sem ponto final

[fogoecarmesim]

Electra

"You look terribly like my father." The thought came up to me between a moan "The eyes, the lips, the skin..." I found myself sprayed across your bed "The warning tone and the absence of touch..." You touched the blood between my legs "The warmness in your cold hands..." You helped me wash away my youth Just like he did

“It must be a Libra thing.” I say to myself I wonder how someone with such a fucked up life Can give such good advice I never follow them Though I know they’re always right It must be my compulsive need to rebel Agains the patriarchy

I stare at you for a few minutes Before climbing over your pulsing skin You see, I look at you And just like with my father I think “I hope I don’t turn out like him” It’s kind of fucked up, isn’t it? You look terribly like my father And still I want to fuck you anyway

Guess Freud wasn’t that crazy after all…

[fogoecarmesim]

Sinto muito

Eu não tenho mais pele, Só a memória de toques alheios De meninas doces e garotos perdidos. Eu não tenho mais gosto, Só o rastro de território que você marcou E então se foi, Me sobrando Só saliva.

Qualquer indiferença forçada é jocosa. Saiba que eu me lembro de tudo E sinto, Sinto muito.

[fogoecarmesim]

Faísca

Ela, uma faísca — Eu, um incêndio Protótipo infernal, Passional, ao maior extremo. Em uma chama constante, Fogo vibrante, Mas que pouco queima.

Eu, na espera — Ela, uma faísca Que aparece eventualmente, Viaja por tantos isqueiros. Deixa queimaduras, mas nunca fica. Se apaga deixando apenas o rastro Daquela memória De um suposto sentimento.

Sinto muito, faísca. Todos sentem a dor da sua partida, Mas eu sei que você queria também Ao menos sentir alguém

[fogoecarmesim]

Lugar-comum

Ela traga fundo seu Lucky Strike, escorada na parede mal pintada, enquanto seus pelos se eriçam com a ventania e o cabelo se mistura com a fumaça. Um dos braços cruzado, protegendo o corpo e as unhas compridas arranhando o cotovelo. O pé bate impaciente na calçada, fita a rua pouco movimentada e o tom alaranjado do céu autunal.

“Quanto desespero.” A figura surge do nada em seu lado esquerdo. Os fios negros presos em um rabo, a barba pungente emoldurando o rosto de expressão forte. E o cobrindo, aquele velho sobretudo bege.

“Ah, você acha?” ela ironiza, arremessando a bituca calçada e os braços no pescoço másculo. Os lábios avermelhados ainda impregnados com nicotina encontram o sorriso torto acima da barba e as garras se prendem à nuca.

“Bom, você parecia afobada mesmo no telefone.” ele diz ao tomar fôlego, suas sobrancelhas se arqueiam. “O mercado está escasso?”

“Cala a boca.” A ruiva o fuzila com os olhos e começa a puxá-lo pela gola porta adentro. O lugar é imundo. Ela se apressa à recepção e troca uma dúzia de palavras com um homem magricelo, que lhe entrega a chave de um quarto nos fundos.

Este, digno de qualquer coisa naquele estabelecimento. A iluminação é precária, composta por apenas um abajur em cima do criado mudo ao lado da cama, os únicos móveis do cômodo. O rapaz abre a boca para fazer um comentário fajuto, mas é logo interrompido pelos dedos da moça.

“Só me fode logo. Por. Favor.”

O semblante dele muda em um instante em resposta ao olhar de súplica dela. Seu lado jocoso se vai, dando espaço ao lobo interior, que arranca as roupas da amante com agilidade.

Assim, logo se encontram nus em beijos desesperados, as garras dela puxando e arranhando por onde passam, como se agarrando uma mão salvadora em um penhasco. Ele procura dominá-la, espalhando seus lábios pela pele desnuda. Nos ombros, nos seios, no sexo… Até que ela o puxa de volta para cima pelos fios negros e ele entende o recado.

Seu pau desliza facilmente para dentro dela e logo inicia sua dança ao som de gemidos abafados. Ele busca os olhos de felino da garota, mas eles se fecham em outra realidade, em um estado alfa. Meditando em prazer, sensitivamente, abandonando os pensamentos e preocupações.

Ele acelera, os gemidos aumentam gradualmente e o rosto delicado varia entre o prazer e a dor, os dedos agora agarrando firme o lençol barato, a cabeça jogada para trás com os fios acobreados bagunçados.

Observando tal expressão, por um momento ele pensa em parar e diminui a velocidade, mas é logo repreendido. “NÃO PARA!”

O moreno, então, a vira abruptamente, deixando-a de quatro, e mete com violência, ele mesmo agora fechando os olhos, por saber do que ela precisa. Os gemidos dela então tornam-se descarados, exprimindo toda a dor necessária, atingindo seu ápice e finalizando em espasmos por todo o corpo pálido, sentindo seus fluidos se misturarem logo depois com o gozo do membro dentro de si.

As duas carcaças caem lado a lado na cama barata. Exaustos, não do ato em si, mas do que acabara de acontecer em um plano maior.

Ela se vira para o lado, imóvel. Recuperando o fôlego, ele se levanta, veste sua calça e acende um cigarro. Depois dos altos gemidos, o silêncio predomina no quarto.

“Passa a noite comigo.” O pedido, ou súplica, vem quase que inaudível da boca delicada estirada do outro lado da cama. Não há resposta. Ele termina o cigarro sem pressa, o apaga no criado mudo, ao lado do maço, e desliga o abajur. O quarto se inunda em escuridão.

Algumas horas depois, junto com o Sol, ela se levanta vagarosamente. Dá alguns passos e recolhe do chão o conhecido sobretudo bege, enrolando-o em seu corpo gelado. Apalpa o bolso interno até sentir uma pedra em formato de coração, a segura com força por alguns segundos e a coloca no criado mudo, trocando-a pelo maço de cigarros.

Caminha em direção a porta e abre a maçaneta precária. Enquanto a luz da manhã adentra a fresta e ela se esquiva para o lado de fora, pode observar a presa em seu sono profundo. Com a outra mão, ela acaricia o pingente de seu colar. O mesmo talismã em forma de coração lapidado em pedra-do-sol.

Em um suspiro profundo, a porta se fecha.

O lobo acorda com apenas a memória do perfume insensato ao seu lado, horas depois, drenado.