and there laid a corpse

as bare as it came to earth

only transfixed by the very medium

that it arrived there by

immortalised as a sculpture for some

lusted as a muse for others

and cursed as debris for the rest

whose existence is as debated

as your average

contemporary art medium

but only ever so less

as the modern woman

in the current political climate

and sometimes i still wish

my guts were as empty as i feel

so i wouldn't cry at paintings in the museum

and wouldn't suffer losses as my own,

and wouldn't bleed out over my notebook's pages

and my psyche is the only one i perform for

even if my medium is the only one i perform for

there was some sort of laughter

coming from the center of the audience

people look fairly serious

or didn't look serious enough

and its just a thing of a glimmer and a smile and a wink and then a denial of that seriousness

and then a few people look at each other

to confirm or see if that's actually happening

to their neighbours

and even if my art shows are empty

it's still on the bare street

when all eyes are laid on me

even when i no longer have a face

for eyes to be laid on,

and am no longer an object of desire

nor one deserving of liberty,

turned through lust itself

into a creature daughter of satan

incapable of being loved

as little as it loves itself

only a recipient of attention

as a receptacle for the consumption of such

only to distract

from the other vile acts around it

for it's already vile in nature

looking at the audience now 

what i'm seeing is 

a lot of people talking to each other

and suddenly they look back straight at the mirror

and smile and then they look at each other smiling

to the people they were talking with before

people moving around

swaying

giving a response in that fashion

I see

people waiting

and you can try to kill me

as hard as ive tried myself

but the bloodstain in the shape of your palm

remains printed in the white brick wall

and so does mine

so if youre still here

and now im no longer there

how come i can still see you and

how come i still feel your limbs with mine and

how come we melt together into a

body horror type of creature

restricted by physicality into a hell of its own making

defined only by its most shallow definition

and its most deepest regrets and nightmares

how come it is above the law

as much as it is under it

how come it has your eyes

and looks like you the day you left me

how come no matter how hard i try

i still cant find a pulse

but it still looks at me

from the corner of the room

like you used to do 

before grief itself engulfed me

and hung me from my very chair

onto the alfeize of your window

as if the way i couldnt leave you

makes me but a prize to you

but rips me of any value

how you hang a carcass like a trophy

how come no matter how hard i try

i still dont feel the same again

so i just dont bother writing

and prick my fingers out myself

and let my blood speak for me

as it doesnt need words

to justify my humanity for me

and it has no expiry date

or at least the one of alien conscience

so i now speak in a nonverbal way

ever since i got my mouth sewn shut

as i never liked screaming anyway

i bang my head against the wall now

and now the walls aren't white no more

as word on the block's it made staff angry

so it's rotten with tomatoes

thrown by an angry audience

and it's coated with clots

from the very blood of my guts now

as it still drips from beneath me

and it casts pearls before swine

falls from my fingers to the

corners of the lips

of he who nay learnt to drink

my crowd dead

like chips and wires

floor is still falling beneath me

and grants me not a worthy death

but still keeps me around

to only get off on my suffering

as my throat is no longer usable

but my yells still remain amusing

road still remains wet with my footsteps 

no matter how hard you pushed me

I WAS STILL HERE SOMEDAY

i still bled out as far as i could

still left a mark that could remind me

of a world that didnt want me

no matter how hard you had me evicted

I WAS STILL HERE SOMEDAY

the very streets you try to bleach out 

the same rocks to try to cut from 

they were eroded from my touch itself

I WAS STILL HERE SOMEDAY

the snow still marks my trail home

even if i felt home nowhere

i'm still alive searching for somewhere

I CAN SOMEHOW FEEL ALIVE AGAIN

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"oye, esto,

sé que es muy tarde para esto,

pero igualmente quería

arriesgarme y preguntarte...

...todavía me quieres?"

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