Lone Pigeon 

I make my way through the hollow street. Everyone awake but me. Wine in my right wing, annihilation in the other.

I drink, until the dreariness drownes my flight.  I drink. Drink enough to make the joy embrace my sight.

The streets feel kind as I press my tumbling feet against the ground. At once it’s just me.

Me and the earth, surrounded by the bitter sweet breeze of winter mornings, rushing through my feathers. 

As I walk through the hollow streets, I see a pigeon lying on the floor. Her wings spread open as if it were an angel, silhouetted on the ground. 

I contemplate it- dead. No angel. No life. No heaven. Just my feathers blending into the ground.

Alien to my sleep I gaze at my corpse; my soul wedded to the wind, rising above a frozen body I no longer recognise as mine. 

I exhale myself into the breath of the air. Into the breath of our sulphurous world. I’m free. 

I am dead. 

P.S sorry for the being cliché 

Marisa 

Monday’s are my day of grief 
I remember, you coming trough my kitchen door 

I, under the table hiding, praying for you to go

You, searching for me as if you didn’t know 
Monday’s are my day of grief. 

You used to come over 

Park your white ancient car 

Flood me with knowledge, I wouldn’t have been able to grasp
You taught me since I was six

Now Monday’s are my day of grief 

We used to scream at each other, I remember,

I used to be the most annoying kid
When I was twelve, politics was all we did 

I would bring up a topic 

Just for us to stop practicing our grammar 

Full stop, coma; I wish it could still be 
You used to talk me through my disease 

Unlike others who just forced me to eat 

You were accepting, you just listened unconditionally 

Now Monday’s are my day of grief
You consoled my sobbing 

When boys just treated me like shit 

You used to tell me I was still young and free

That no man or lover could rule my destiny 
How was I so blind, not to see 

You were haunted by la muerte, 

tearing you up from head to feet

You were so bright so full of glee.

Now my bedroom feels weird ,

Like its haunted by your cheer 

And my mind cannot accept, that those tears you spared,

Weren’t of happiness but of death
When we stopped seeing each other, I was sixteen 

You told me,” your language is good enough,

Don’t waste more of your talent on me,”

And now Monday’s are, my day of grief.

 

Don’t lose contact, 

“Everyone’s leaving, 

and I’m scared of staying by myself”

Now all that I have left is regret 
For I, an obnoxious teenager couldn’t see,

How much you needed company 

I would always leave you till the next day 

Because getting drunk was, my priority 
One day, I phoned your husband;

 You weren’t picking up your phone, 

As I heard his crackled voice

I new something had gone wrong 
He told me, I’m afraid you won’t be able to talked to her no more

Why I asked innocently 

She’s lying on the floor. She’s gone.

As he articulated the words
I could feel the blood, 

Rushing out of your veins

I could hear your cheering fading away 
An eighth floor with a beautiful balcony,

From which, you flee

Like a wood-swallow, 

Setting yourself free from misery. 
But now, every Monday is my day of grief,

And  you had so much left to live. 

Ps. Sorry for being an uptight teenager and not phoning you as much as I should have. 

P.S2: sorry for the awkward format and structure WordPress is being annoying. 

The alien: you 

Do you ever caress your shadow? Do you ever feel your cheeks blushing as the music resonates in the background? 

Do you ever feel comfort as you hug your pillow and the rain runs freely down your eyes? 

Have you ever let your soul sink into the mattress of a stranger? 

Have you ever? 

Have you ever inhaled the fumes of death and felt alive? 

What do you dream about, when you’re chained to reality? 

What do you see when your eyes are blind and the light too bright? 

Tell me what is left of you, when the wind has blown away your ashes. 

When there’s nothing left, but an empty canvas framing the flourishing nostalgia of our fading flames? 

When the mirror tinted by the blue, doesn’t reflect an image of you. 

And you realise the stranger you’ve been sleeping next to is no one. 

But you