leonorfernandes

Every morning the body gets up. Or doesn’t. This is a ranting about paradoxes - you are, but you cannot be. If you are not, why aren’t you being? The world requires an answer the body is not yet ready to give. It is, after all, morning. This is something written about self-love. Hello, how are you, I think my brain is alerting me not to love you, why does your face look so much like mine? There are so many things we are supposed to tell each other. A question of movement, a question of standing still, a question of knowing when to do what, a question of expectations. Every morning the body does, or doesn’t, get up, and

on resting on graves: you are a sleepless morning and therefore, I am

September came as a bad night out; I was dancing then while you sang, don't stop, keep singing, and you were opera, you were punk, and as for myself, you begged me to be the blues. I wanted jazz, so I danced, danced, danced, dress floating and body stumbling, dizzy with passion, drunk on love, etc., & there you are, you chest-burning melody. but oh, no, no: it's okay to forget to take care of your plants. sometimes, the devil sneaks in and let them rot, decompose, as you sleep, barely & so then comes the funeral: Marcha Funebre for les fleurs du mal, yours & isn't death supposed to be poetic & pretentious & just golden, rusty, just champ

tame your lungs: you martyr, you pitiful Atlantida, you cheap titanic, you sinking bird; it is time to dive & die.

There was once anxiety and there was once suffocation - the good kind. There was chaos to run to and misery to die for. To sleep with. To sleep in. The white walls weren't white, we didn't care. you got them dirty with your cigarettes, I didn't care. No: you were a poem I profoundly disliked. but you were, nevertheless, a poem. A dirty god in disguise. A burned cigarette on the white wall: me, not so white anymore, a bit more grey, a bit more blue. There were once the 'I can't wait's. The 'please, come home's and the 'I'll die without you here's. The 'I miss your scent's and the 'I hate you, let's go to bed's. The summertime sadness The

soft moans echoing head spinning and wanting more (dead bodies crying)