s211

look me up at a cutter table

[sanchesju]

i’ve had it explained to me, when a child, about vision loss (or never having it at all). it wasn’t a condition i had, still, as kid, i could only fully understand something by relating to it. so, whenever my eyes would be too full of all the things i wish i couldn’t relate to so easily, i would pick up my diary and write. i’ve had this pink cd player for as long as i can remember, decorated with all of my favorite stickers, and i’d played the saddest songs a child could possibly listen to. as i outgrew the cd player, the stickers obsession and the childish metaphors, i claimed to have forgotten all about the blindness that only infuriating losses can unleash. i have never outgrew the sadness, though. a few days after my 24th birthday, while listening to flatsound on spotify, i’ve opened up my notes app (i still maintain a diary, but a phone’s light’s much easier to hide at 1am). i’ve made my greatest works while terribly sobbing and more than partially blind by it. temporarily, the tears wouldn’t allow me to see. permanently, i’ve gathered that there are all this parts of life i’d never be allowed to comprehend, since i cannot face the depth of its colors - some happinesses haven’t got a translation in braille, and most happinesses don’t translate in poetry. you know, the language us blindingly sad writers speak in.

- s211 could see, yet she’s never truly saw herself without the grudge of despair.

[sanchesju]

i read about how love should be cautious. how it should test its waters before a deep dive. i strongly disagree. rationally, of course, i can understand why someone would think so. i’ve had my heart broken - seriously broken, so i do get it. however, isn’t it cuffing up love a stupid misguided attempt to control destiny? furthermore, can one truly love if it happens caged? if it means calculated steps in order to protect a heart that has been made to half-feel its feelings? no, no. it can’t be this. all this suffering and longing and aching and saudade - it has to symbolize something more. love has to surpass the fear of it all. ultimately, love is only love if it is truly above the terror of losing a loved one (true love will make you at piece with, at least, holding on to the careless happily lived memories you created before the end).

- perhaps s211 has made its peace with losing if it means living to the fullest

[sanchesju]

i’m strong and resilient and i love myself but i do miss being soft and held and praised. i’m still being touched but i miss craving someone’s touch so much it would make me happy when it happened. i’m not celibate, but i’m just not feeling it like he’d make me feel. fuck. shit. i can’t have him back, nor do i want to. in the end, it was just not good enough. i needed it louder, he needed it hidden. but damn. will i ever find connection like that again? will i spend the rest of my life looking for him in someone else? now, that’s just unfair.

- s211 thinks life’s seriously unfair

[sanchesju]

saudadesaudadesaudade saudade!!!

quase não sobra espaço no peito:

é tudo amor e todo amor vira saudade.

- s211 sente falta até do que ainda é, mas especialmente do que nunca mais será.

[sanchesju]

que meu corpo seja belo,

sem que precise ser profano.

que minhas marcas sejam memórias - mosaico de histórias - de uma vida bem vivida.

que minha pele seja, preta e divina

(sem “mas”):

muito mais,

que meu espelho brade afeto.

se nos preferem escondidos,

minha autoestima é grito:

quero a audácia de ser visto, por si próprio,

lotado de orgulho, cheio de carinho.

que meu corpo seja, sobretudo, ninho.

- s211 tem (se) amado

[sanchesju]

sonhei contigo pela primeira vez desde aquela última que lhe contei, mas, mesmo naquela vez, eu tinha sonhado com o passado, com a nossa viagem de fevereiro. dessa vez, sonhei com o presente, não foi um sonho romântico. pela primeira vez, você apareceu na minha cabeça já tendo seguido em frente - parecia uma parte deletada daquele filme de terror (La La Land). ‘tô enraivecida, fazia dias que não pensava em ti e cá estou eu, 3 da matina, caçando tuas redes sociais, procurando um indício de que alguma coisa tem lhe acordado aí também (ainda que só de vez em quando). nós sempre dissemos sermos “coisa de alma”, “sincronia insana”, mas ‘tá parecendo uma piada de mau gosto agora: a gente nem se fala e você se acha no direito de aparecer na minha cabeça. e pior, nem é para me fazer suspirar de amor ou saudade. não, é só um lembrete, discreto e teimoso, de que talvez isso aqui seja uma conexão inesquecível (ainda que a paixão esteja muito bem enterrada no passado). é só um lembrete, sorrateiro e irredutível, determinado a derrubar os meus cinismos: talvez sejamos mesmo um bando de coincidências que tinham que acontecer - até as que levaram ao fim.

- s211 não acredita em coisas de alma e nem em amores que acabam

[sanchesju]

i cried silently,

holding you in my arms,

‘cause even though i knew it was for the better,

and our love was running its course,

i couldn’t fathom letting you go

(not while you were still so close).

so i held you,

and rested my head on the curve of your neck.

you didn’t hold me back.

(you had already pulled away from us, laying there by my side).

i whispered “i wish things were different”;

you continued to sleep.

(at the end, you were always oblivious to me).

- s211 knows hurt people hurt people, but, man! those cuts were never equal…

[sanchesju]

is it that you’re the love of my life and i’m scared we won’t find each other again,

or is it that i’m terrified i’ll hate myself when i’m not the girl you like?

- s211 is ashamed to admit she’s only seen herself softly through his eyes

[sanchesju]

era uma vez (já que todas as boas histórias começam assim) o início do fim. o irmão do meio do começo. dentre seus irmãos, só era lembrado quando chegava - especialmente porque não era possível impedi-lo de ser. arrebatador, ainda que sorrateiro, o início do fim dava cara para um luto que ainda viria. era como uma sala de espera de todo último verso. não era encerramento, porém punha-se definitivo. e doía, doía muito mais que seu irmão mais novo (o fim).

não era o mais violento, mas sabia como fazer arder. era algoz de golpes lentos - ainda que, ao mesmo tempo, o mais veloz. esperto e conhecedor, sabia identificar a dor de cada uma de suas vítimas. seu tratamento era individual e muito bem dosado. do peito, arrancava de pronto a euforia do começo - queria, do seu irmão mais velho, meros vestígios. para o mais novo, limpava o terreno: semeava a angústia dos pontos finais.

sobretudo, apreciava estimular a agonia. aquela que só conhece quem sabe que, o que possui, acabará. amiga íntima de todo peito ansioso. no entanto, a ansiedade era mera ferramenta. não lhe precisava. bastava sua presença. inevitável, sentava como um aviso pútrido em corpos que ainda dançavam. respiravam. viviam. não tinha jeito: aprendia-se a viver com ele, na marra.

há quem, em vão, lutava. empurrava-lhe para fora a todo custo. antes mesmo que se concluísse o despejo, ele já estava de volta. há, ainda, quem implorasse. sentava e chorava e chorava, na esperança de que ele, de algum modo, se compadecesse. nunca funcionou. ele próprio era escravo de seus intentos. outra vez, ficara rouco tentando explicar seus motivos, por isso preferia o silêncio.

foi quando se apaixonou pela saudade. avassaladora e barulhenta, saudade. como ele, era muito conhecida. estava presente em todas as fases da vida: e, mais do que isso, carregava frutos do amor, da paixão e da alegria. era si e também era todas essas outras. até, depois de seu enlace, ficou claro que grande parte da saudade pertence ao início do fim. tornou-o digerível: memórias jamais perecem.

agora, é verdade, ainda há quem o despreze. porém, os mais sortudos de nós, entendem que é preciso recebê-lo sem medo. sem pressa. só porque o fim começa, não quer dizer que não haverá outros primeiros (e, de vez em quando, até recomeços). por isso, quando a falta estraçalhar o peito, sempre se pode abraçar a saudade (aquele que já foi amado andará acompanhado mesmo nos fins).

trinta e um de dezembro, eu lhe recebo sem receio, tranquila e cheia de saudade. que comece o fim e que seja tão lindo quanto toda a festa!

- s211

[taylorswift]

Um ok this is unreal?? I just wanted to say to anyone who listened to my music this year, anywhere in the world, thank you. Getting named Spotify’s Global Top Artist in 2023 is truly the best birthday/holiday gift you could’ve given me. We’ve seriously had THE MOST fun this year out there on tour and now this. Are you serious. So I was trying to think of a way to thank you, and a lot of you have been asking me to put “You’re Losing Me (From The Vault)” on streaming… so here you go! You can finally listen EVERYWHERE now 💋

https://taylor.lnk.to/YLMfromthevault

[sanchesju]

i’m not quite sure when it started.

i was 5 and my parents were my heroes.

i wanted my dad to come home,

i wished to be just like my mom.

i remember being told to be tough.

i had a younger brother who was nothing but kind.

i remember thinking i wanted to be kind.

i was 7.

i already had my diaries and my big girl thoughts of ending.

(i knew who i was from a very early age)

i needed my brother to continue soft.

i got tougher.

i can’t quite remember when i liked it.

if i ever did.

i was 8.

my mom and my brother were hugging in bed.

(he was always her favorite child)

they asked me if i wanted in.

(i missed my dad)

i said i did not wanted to be touched.

i was born with this giant hole inside of me.

it is constantly begging.

i have this ache i cannot cure.

i was 9.

my mom told people i was different:

“she doesn’t like clinging”,

“she’s just not affectionate”.

i screamed (silently) that i wish i was worthy of affection.

i was 13. such a beautifully recking age.

i did not know how to ask for it anymore.

i inherited my father’s rage.

he was never around,

yet, the angrier i get,

the closer he felt.

i convinced myself i simply did not liked to be touched.

i am a very good liar.

i was 17.

i was pretty sure i was in love.

i wasn’t.

i used to cringe whenever he would touch my hand.

i would miss it profusely when he wouldn’t.

my mother’s voice reminded me i was different.

i was 20.

i had already figured it out:

i am a combination of my dad’s faults,

and my mother’s lacking.

i was terrified of it.

(still am).

it was the first time i had the guts to say it out loud:

i crave affection with insatiable hunger.

i aspired to be kind.

(i’m too rough for it).

i am 22.

i met you.

you hold me.

you touch me.

you never let me run.

i don’t cringe.

i do like to be touched.

i’ve spent my whole life wishing for it.

i’m just like everyone else.

(i am 5).

maybe i’m soft, after all.

- s211 dreams of being kind

[sanchesju]

eu nasci em uma casa em chamas.

o calor, para mim, era sinônimo de calma;

talvez por isso eu procure,

ávida e desesperadamente,

pelos sons de tudo que queima

[quem arde]

no silêncio, eu congelo:

não sei como me portar sem os gritos.

desajeitada, sua paz me soa esquisito,

e eu continuo procurando pelo vermelho

[nas frestas]

mesmo quando você só é quente no peito.

eu confesso:

nós

[crianças em chamas]

passamos a vida ansiando derreter.

- eu quero me fazer ícaro por você

[weltonboys]

salma deera

[sanchesju]

you never did.

[some burns are for me and my stupid-gigantic-needy-heart alone]

call a fireman

[cry me a river]

[sanchesju]

i’m supposed to love my body cause he is home

maybe that’s why i hate it so much

i never liked it home

i look at myself and feel like throwing up

this inexplicable need to run

i’ve always wanted to fled

there’s no much that makes me feel safe

probably just the need to escape

the mirror reflects the walls

im constantly trying to break through

maybe that’s why i hated it so badly

my house was always burning

but my body is the one that holds the scars from the fire

maybe that’s why

when, occasionally,

i love it

i feel this prickling guilt

‘cause how could i feel affection

for a place that made me to never be

how could abuse be so dear to me

i can never truly forgive

so i can never truly forget

it’s not that i found myself ugly

it’s that my home can only

scare

me

to

death

- S211

[sanchesju]

here are some things i wish i was taught at school (instead of math):

- do not pick a side until you’re sure the couple’s not going back together (you’ll end up the only enemy)

- you are NOT in a romcom, stop kissing your besties

- tampons will not take your virginity (a hymen means shit actually)

- you’re never as fat as you think you are

- bitches will be bitches (and sometimes you’ll be bitches. it’s okay.)

- growing up most of the times means letting go

[sanchesju]

so, i’m counting our breakup day as the day we broken off all forms of contact. before it we were simply breaking up (for all those eternal 6 months of it). we would not let it close. every time, we would rip the wound open again. until june, 11th. officially the last time you read me, and the last i heard from you. that’s when i deleted your number (which i never had it memorized ‘cause it’s the twenty-first-fucking-century). that’s when i went silent - even my poetry, so i tried writing in a diary again (at least it can’t be posted). even though we started breaking up back in 2022, the early days of September, none of it was real until right about july, 11th, 2023. a month since you were definitely gone. gone. for real, gone. my friends think i should be over it already (it’s been almost a year since we started the breakup cycle). they don’t get it, though. for me, it’s been only a month, four days and 9 hours. but who’s counting?

- hoping to hit my head, fall asleep and forget all about us

[sanchesju]

uma das coisas mais humanas - pela qual, inclusive, eu nutro tremenda curiosidade - é a licença poética. aquela linguística, cheia de mentirosas antíteses. sabe, de quem diz "eu tenho absolutamente tudo" e procede para enfiar um "mas", acompanhado de uma lista de tudo aquilo que, absolutamente, não se tem.

nada é tão humano quanto chamar de muito aquilo que, na realidade, é só o suficiente (o muito está na pilha de poesias que você escreveu sobre um amor meio medíocre mas que insiste em carregar no peito).