Pretty Even

She remembers the times
he rubbed it all in her face.
Car payment, shopping sprees,
fancy meals, his fancy place.

Every argument led to one direction,
“I’ve done so much for you;
I’m the answer to your equation.”

Repetitive words
he said so often times,
made her question decisions
she made in her prime times.

Guilt, insecurity, loneliness, and misery,
She raced against life,
trying to change destiny.

Maybe he was right;
maybe she owed him a hundred.
He picked her up, after all,
when her days were thundered.

Pounding her head
with the hammer’s claws
until the impact
cut loose the gauze.

Countless years with no elation
were indeed grounds for cancellation.

Pretty even, she thought,
it had been paid off.

 

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Still, I Can’t Breathe

My feet up on a table, hands writing my life. Papers, sticky notes, cheap street art. All overlapping each other, hanging from a wall so plain and white. Receipts everywhere; months old, years old. What’s the point of holding on? Organizing them is futile, I long gave up. Paper towel wasted, not my doing. ‘Til Monday I’ll be buried in them, when the trash truck comes.the climb

Outdated tapes hiding years of better days, and people by whom I was betrayed. Standing there begging to be watched, yet another pile of shit I don’t give. A dried bamboo plant wonders why I let it died. But we’re all dying over here, maybe not as visibly as its leaves.

There’s no more room on the coffee table; my bags and other random objects have taken over. I used to be better at putting these away. It’s the end. Can’t find room, can’t find time, can’t find motivation, can’t find…life. It’s as simple as living, if only I remembered what it meant.

Computers with connection. Not one, not two, not three; they’re about six. The great escape is as easy as 1, 2, 3. Walls, they’re more than four. The ceilings are high. Functioning doors from July to July. Big windows welcoming the air. Not too far from the ground if running I should need. Still, I can’t breathe.

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Exes: You’ll Be Alright

First comes the problems,
then it's the fights,
then the denial,
then, boom – goodbye.
One remote day, though,
healed over time,
you become friends again,
hang out 'til sunrise.
You'll be alright.

 

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I Want a House Full of Nothing

I want a house full of nothing;
just a clean wooden bare floor,
scented candles and a tall door.

I want a house full of nothing;
a mirror and music to dance to,
red lipstick and perfume for days of blues.

I want a house full of nothing;
counter lights, clean toilet seat,
hot water in tub to soak my feet.

I want a house full of nothing;
just a blackboard on the wall,
chalk, words, and no phone calls.

I want a house full of nothing;
just one fork and one knife,
red wine in barrels for the real life.

I want a house full of nothing;
a winter coat and a few shoes,
passport ready for a world cruise.

I want a house full of nothing;
just pen and paper on my desk,
and big windows by my queen bed.

I want a house full of nothing;
spiced chestnut scented sheets,
peppermint toothpaste and lots of beets.

I want a house full of nothing;
a skyline and double doors,
‘cause rainy days I do adore.

I want a house full of nothing;
a high rooftop and no TV,
bare boobs in the warm breeze.

This house I want that is full of nothing
I’ll fill with all of the little things,
they may seem small to the avaricious,
but pure joy to me they bring.

© Marcia Capellán

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Mil Rostros

a thousand faces

Puede que las caras que presento
no sean siempre de agrado
ni mucho menos adecuadas
para el mejor momento.

A todos brindo mi única cara,
pero a los ingratos voy y muestro
la que no tiene sentimientos

Y así dejarles saber que
no es ira lo que siento
mas bien, indiferencia;
I’m sorry si me ahuyento.

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Define el Dolor / Define Pain

A veces el dolor perdura
mucho después de
haberse cerrado la herida.
¿Qué duele más,
la herida física o la emocional?

English:
Sometimes the pain sticks around
long after
the injury has closed.
What’s more painful,
physical or emotional injury?

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Wooden Scars

Lately, I find myself in one of those moods when anything may turn into a lovely art-piece. I’ve learned to look at the positive of not-so-positive moments, turning them into poetry or, in my head, a symphony.

I’ve learned to appreciate the smallest things. The other day, as I was cleaning, a scratch on the console table made me stop and think about what I was seeing. It was a thought of appreciation. I ran my fingers through the small crater and followed its shape. Beautiful, I thought, as I wiped away the dust.

Maybe it isn’t really beautiful and I’m being overly sentimental and dramatic (because I just moved and it brought back memories), or maybe there really is something heart-warming about the old furniture that have spent so many birthdays with us.

Things, just like someones, also have a lifespan. Our scars — physical or emotional — remind us of the pain we’ve endured; scratches on furniture are also scars, wooden scars, and they remind us of paths we’ve traveled and steps we’ve given, sometimes literally. How I banged my toe on the claws-like feet of the same table, for example. Or how loose the screws on the coffee table are from moving it so many times from place to place. They’re memories worth keeping.

The old me would have wanted that table out, in the garbage, ready for a brand new piece because that’s what most people do. But today, I think I want it in. I think, from now on, it is not old until it’s old. Like, completely useless.

I never thought I’d look at a scratch on a piece of furniture as something precious, but time and life change us. These simple little things, which I never before cared for, for some reason now mean everything.

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