Our poem

So my younger sister Biz, is a poet & song writer. She also happens to be a welder :) We've been texting back and forth and came up with a collective poem. I wanted to share it... 

We don't have a name for it yet 

It's hard to ask

but it's harder to know.
Que me falta?
Que me falta por hacer?
Que me falta por amar?
Que me falta por buscar?
Que me falta por sentir, doler y tocar?

Me dan ancias

que me encojen el cuerpo.
There's no wrong in that
but the way these needs become
skin and sweat
there might be something to
that.

To relieve this flesh,

the tallies build up,
the times begin to blur
and I ask in a subtle flinch
of bodies touching,
WAIT! pull back
drowned by burning but

I choose the wetness.

Realizing that this calloused skin,
this palpatating heart, bleeds a little thicker
everytime you push me away.
You'll never have the pleasure of my complain,
my naggin pain.
Because when actions speak,

there isn't room left for words.

And when MY actions speak,
they speak slow, they feel cold
reflecting the loss of heart that lives inside me.
The callousness that many have helped form.
And to grow I've learned to hurt, to burn
and I find myself vulnerable in the way I love

with love just waiting to turn

slowly, and softly into
passion that evokes that desire to hurt.
Intense waiting but remembering this isn't love.
This is that feeling that helps me fall
deep, deep into dark, dark sleep.

Wounds, the wounds that are wound up,

placed on pedestals of disgusting disdain
one too many times.
Remembering this isn't right.
Reminizing my tiredness.
My fatigue, his fatigue, and our loss.
Learning doesn't hurt, and hurting isn't learning.

Left afraid, en soledad,

my reflexes reflecting
that I wasn't created to drown
aunque naci con ganas de nadar...
I'm not loving the wrong bodies
I'm just loving parts of the wrong ones. 

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