People grow;
people mature;
people learn from the past;
but we don't.
And you'll tell me this story is old,
these things have been told already,
life is nice now.
Life is what you want it to be .
Life is what you make out of it .
Life is about your courage, is about your strength.
Its all about your balls.
The violence, the emotional violence,
the pain that staggers,
it's there to remind you,
as you grow,
and mature,
and learn from the past,
that it will always be on the notepad of your thoughts,
printed as a watermark.
It's in the whispers of your childhood,
in your favourite toy,
in the few memories,
it was printed out with your very own tears.
Always there to remind you.
Family portrait,
inexistent life,
Death as you can imagine it,
different ways, different days,
life is unexpected,
your brain freezes,
and unlocks.
Painful days,
memories of the past,
things you can't let go of,
screaming,
All this, all this love,
could be easily resolved,
if your rapist comes and says,
this is love and now I understand.
But he doesn't and probably never will.
She won't even think about it.
She shouldn't think that far.
He's not programmed this way.
Only in a way that says,
Love is food or toys,
Love is what I give to your hands,
Love is what I could give you, nothing more,
Love is not thinking about you,
Love is thinking about me,
and myself
and me
and me.
Not you.
You; the one in need,
you the one in need of nurture,
and love,
and understanding,
and focus,
and acceptance,
and all these things that make you human.
And not a toy.
Not a dog.
Not a spiderman figure.
Not the greatest grades in school.
Not food.
Nothing.
But a yes.
Yes.
Be, what you have to be.
And yes Im gonna love you.
For what it takes and gives,
in sickness and health,
in good and bad,
in trial and error,
in normal and abnormal,
in pain and in pleasure.
Dear Dad,
Your face doesn't exist in my family portrait,
Not as family,
maybe as something else,
but not as dad.
There is no version of your love,
There is no version of your care,
There is nothing,
You gave a big, fat nothing,
I realise it, the more I talk to you,
Inadequate,
Same old you, same old (now) me,
You planted a flower,
and never watered it.
You planted a seed,
and never nurtured it,
You planted a life,
and never too care of it.
You are not the owner of this plant,
The owner of this plant is the soil,
the rain,
the people passing by that watered here and there,
its about me,
dry leaves,
fungus,
and I still blossomed,
blossomed so nice that people passed by,
and found me,
and saw me,
and took me from your soil and put me else,
where I could be myself,
and make flowers,
You never liked flowers, dad.
They were too gay for you.
Well guess what, I'm gay.
My flowers are fucking gay.
And because of my malnutrition,
Ill always be weaker,
Unless I give a lot,
unless I give my whole strength,
to blossom,
to survive,
to live.
Rain. I don't need your water.
I can't drink your water,
I can't drink your poison.
I have grown without it.
Wouldn't do it now.
people mature;
people learn from the past;
but we don't.
And you'll tell me this story is old,
these things have been told already,
life is nice now.
Life is what you want it to be .
Life is what you make out of it .
Life is about your courage, is about your strength.
Its all about your balls.
The violence, the emotional violence,
the pain that staggers,
it's there to remind you,
as you grow,
and mature,
and learn from the past,
that it will always be on the notepad of your thoughts,
printed as a watermark.
It's in the whispers of your childhood,
in your favourite toy,
in the few memories,
it was printed out with your very own tears.
Always there to remind you.
Family portrait,
inexistent life,
Death as you can imagine it,
different ways, different days,
life is unexpected,
your brain freezes,
and unlocks.
Painful days,
memories of the past,
things you can't let go of,
screaming,
All this, all this love,
could be easily resolved,
if your rapist comes and says,
this is love and now I understand.
But he doesn't and probably never will.
She won't even think about it.
She shouldn't think that far.
He's not programmed this way.
Only in a way that says,
Love is food or toys,
Love is what I give to your hands,
Love is what I could give you, nothing more,
Love is not thinking about you,
Love is thinking about me,
and myself
and me
and me.
Not you.
You; the one in need,
you the one in need of nurture,
and love,
and understanding,
and focus,
and acceptance,
and all these things that make you human.
And not a toy.
Not a dog.
Not a spiderman figure.
Not the greatest grades in school.
Not food.
Nothing.
But a yes.
Yes.
Be, what you have to be.
And yes Im gonna love you.
For what it takes and gives,
in sickness and health,
in good and bad,
in trial and error,
in normal and abnormal,
in pain and in pleasure.
Dear Dad,
Your face doesn't exist in my family portrait,
Not as family,
maybe as something else,
but not as dad.
There is no version of your love,
There is no version of your care,
There is nothing,
You gave a big, fat nothing,
I realise it, the more I talk to you,
Inadequate,
Same old you, same old (now) me,
You planted a flower,
and never watered it.
You planted a seed,
and never nurtured it,
You planted a life,
and never too care of it.
You are not the owner of this plant,
The owner of this plant is the soil,
the rain,
the people passing by that watered here and there,
its about me,
dry leaves,
fungus,
and I still blossomed,
blossomed so nice that people passed by,
and found me,
and saw me,
and took me from your soil and put me else,
where I could be myself,
and make flowers,
You never liked flowers, dad.
They were too gay for you.
Well guess what, I'm gay.
My flowers are fucking gay.
And because of my malnutrition,
Ill always be weaker,
Unless I give a lot,
unless I give my whole strength,
to blossom,
to survive,
to live.
Rain. I don't need your water.
I can't drink your water,
I can't drink your poison.
I have grown without it.
Wouldn't do it now.
