P for passionate me

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I thought she was amazing, I remember well the first time I saw her. She was wearing long sleeves, even though it was hot. And she was also wearing a lit bit of black make up, which gave her kind of an androginous look. After she walked in, I could see no one else. She was beautiful. Tall, with a figure that I liked it and a face full of personality. Also, she had the same trait that me.

We got together that night. It was amazing. Amazing like hell amazing. Her fingers inside of me made me forget my name, where I was, she did it in a such different way that I have never experienced. As the days went by  the more I time spent time with her if I could.  I would found myself more and more head over heels for her. She was different. She did different things, she liked different things but we had things in common enough to connect us.

Although I was totally in love, I always knew she was not the one. But I would like to spend a few months, maybe a few years by her side. Learning, sharing experience, knowledge. She hurted me once. Out of the blue. I wasn´t even expecting it.

Few months later, she came to me again. Another shot. Ok, I really like you. Let me see how it goes. Chat everyday, darling, sweeatheart. Liebe nevermore. Liebe was a thing of the other. More conversations, plans, let´s see each other, I want to be at your house. Please, please come. Please, stay.

I got scared. She was strange. I felt a kind of a disconnection. I had a feeling that she wanted to get out as quickly as possible from my bed. I phoned her, feeling very sad  and she said she couldn´t handle this. She couldn´t handle me. But I could. I could hear her moanings all day and night. And  since I panicked and since she wasn´t able to deal with my sorrows, another separation.

And then a call. Full of tears, full of promises, full of “do as you are, whatever you like” . But I found out that I´m not liked the way that I am and I don´t know why me, then. And why do I have to hurt me for a friendship that I have never wanted and made it clear from the beggining? Why do I keep punishing me like that?

So it´s time for you to go. Starvation have to work. “Im much too heavy for you“. Have you heard that? I don´t know if you have anything to say that will save this, whatever this is, friendship or I don´t know, nor if you want to, I don´t really know  if you like me as you say or if I am important at all to you.I don´t know if you have to say anything  that will end my non stopping tears. But I´m weak and tired. I have lost a whole bunch of water. I don´t deserve this and neither do you.

So I´m loosing your fingers, one by one now. And hopefuly someday you will see that was not to force yourself into a feeling that was smothering you. It was just you lying to yourself.

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About M.

Moira A fatalidade cega. Em grego arcaico, a parte ou quinhão. Em Homero, a parte da vida decretada a cada indivíduo. O destino traçado do qual não se pode fugir e a pré – disposição à tragédia como condição inegável do ser humano. Lei suprema da vida cósmica à qual todos, humanos e Deuses estão sujeitos. Mayra Lopes Intimamente ligada a conceitos. Hardly one. Filosofia e literatura, eros e pathos, hybris e moira. Um conglomerado de hormônios e sensações. Acima de tudo, sensações. Dores e ansiedades. Mais uma fragmentação pós – moderna, com uma diferença: procuro saber de mim. Quero que o mundo se exploda. Eu só ligo para mim e para os meus. Para a arte, o pensamento e as sensações.Felicidade como estado efêmero versus desespero. Suicídio versus a vontade da dor de aprender, a procura. Descendente de espanhóis e poloneses, mantengo uma estima profunda por la lengua que me dice y por la guitarra catalán. Costumo falar de Cortázar e de literatura alemã. Tenho Goethe tatuado nas costas, sobre aquele olhar. Qual? O de todos. Devaneio, entre Miller, Pessoa e nuvens. As vezes também em algodão – doce.A minha escrita, chuva oblíqua. Passo as horas, entre PJ Harvey e um quarto cheio de história. Cheio de mim mas tão cheio de outros, que as vezes, não reconheço. Virgínia Woolf sem a escrita, depressiva. Sei quase tudo sobre os dark places e as pílulas, todas, conheço-as quase todas. Nenhuma nunca me trouxe felicidade, só torpor. Brinquei de Susanna Kaysen por três dias, me internei, me dei alta; no meio tempo, me chamaram pra fugir. Gosto de dar flores de presente mas ganhei poucas. As minhas preferidas são margaridas. É, simples assim. Detesto pleasure delayers. Não vejo sentido. Se tiver que ser algo melhor, vai ser, durante dias, meses, anos. Não há necessidade de adiar nada por causa disso. Eu sei o que eu quero, detesto jogo ( mas sei jogar como ninguém). Meus exs/minhas exs não realmente saem da minha vida. Estão todos por aqui, orbitando. Falo da maioria com carinho de como se as coisas estivessem acontecido ontem. Costumo ser amigas deles e delas. Tenho uma tendência a lembrar primordialmente das coisas boas. Na tela, de preferência a Europa e seus idiomas entre os filmes.Os finais da Lola e os meus possíveis finais. Entrei para Letras, achando que letras é alguma coisa da qual se vive, para descobrir que, apesar de uns e outros, eu não vivo, respiro. Aqui, onde a menina cresce e a mulher se esconde. Isto ainda não sou eu. “I open once and you call me Devil`s gateway”. Prazer, M. View all posts by M.

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