sketch for dawn

The streets are static except for the dog that sniffs through the trash. There are old newspapers being carried by the wind, sometimes flying beautifully one of two feet up the ground. There are empty cans around the house and I’m in between. Such a mirrored image of myself.

There’s a sketch of you in my goodbye note. You look pretty as usual and your eyes are starring at me – and I thought you’d said it was impolite to do such a thing. Actually, I took a lot of care in drawing your eyes because it’s the entrance to one’s soul, or so they say, and I have to feel you somehow. They’re still looking bad, since I could never really draw, but it’s the best I can and it even looks like how I imagine they are.

I call you (six times), your machine answers. It’s not you, it’s a woman. She says something, but I don’t understand, I wonder if you can me. She’s a little robotic and then vanishes in a beep. I record you a message 30 seconds long and many dollars’ worth getting it all out once and for all. But you won’t hear a word. You won’t pick it up, ever. Even if you do.

I’m not expecting your calls, I’m only hoping for them. When it comes down to it, you’re not real - but you’re more believable than I. I’m an uninteresting fiction, though bathed in reality. I look at the stopped clock and fantasize about you penetrating your cock in all my cavities, or in any other’s. My eyes should be convicted for rape, my hands for indecent exposure. That is how I got lost in virginity.

How I wanted to write myself a porno tale – such a silly thing to do – in which you’re doing all that I dreamed you would. I dropped the pen after writing

“you come close”

, because it seemed enough. Sometimes I look at it and drown myself in amazement. Love was never a four-letter word. I have tried it several times and I always lose at Hangman.

Saturday, September 12th 2009.

There is just so much of misfortune I’ve written for the last three or four years, it seems like I’ve dried out of ways to feel bad about life and myself. Life, however, is full of little tricks and always eager to show you how bad things can be. You can never have a strong enough heart, for love requires always way too much than you can give. Sometimes I think it’s like a virus: if you can take it, your body fights it before you can feel it. Not love, as you know just as well as I do.

I’ve decided to write tonight because I’ve been feeling really bad lately, I even cried in front of my mom today – I don’t recall that happening, ever. More than often, nowadays, I think of death. My self-inflicted one. Everyone knows I’ve been in a slow-motion suicide for the past three years. How can it be fair? No, I know it’s not. How do people live, then? Out of pure ignorance, as in… ignoring how hateful and disgusting society is? I’ve been told I take things too seriously and that’s why I won’t ever live a normal life. Is normal life this shallow and ignorant?

But who am I kidding… I’m ignorant too, for not thinking of African kids, or even homeless people from our owns towns. Right now, to be honest, I don't care about anything anymore, or anyone. I am part of what's disgusting. My troubles are also far too important and take me whole, I don't have the energy for anyone else, anymore. I don't know what you want, but I can't give it anymore. Everyone must ignore a lot of things in order to keep living. Tell me… How am I supposed to be positive when so very few of my experiences are positive?


“You can choose how you see things”. Ok, let’s try.

Wheeee! I’m so happy I’ve never had the chance to hold anybody I loved, I’m so happy I’m miserable, isn’t it yummy that I’m still available and have been for nearly 21 years? It’s absolutely fabulous that I hate nearly everything about me, physically, and would have a really hard time undressing in front of anyone. Let’s all have a big party celebrating my unwanted celibacy, broken dreams, helplessness about every single thing of life!!!

I feel better…





… not. Have you ever noticed that no one can do a thing when you’re sad?

Today I’ve had my 70th psychologist appointment. I’ve looked at notes from the second appointment and I see I’m pretty much even worse, because though I do know a LOT about myself now, I’ve been living with the same pain for years and it makes me more and more bitter everyday. I’m more pessimistic now because I know how things happen, and that there’s no way out except down. I’ve had three moments of REAL happiness in the past three years: when K. told me he was bi (how did that end up? Nowhere.) The In Flames concert. When I thought W. loved me (and you’d think you get wiser growing up). Wake up, moron! No one will love you as a lover. Maybe as a friend, tops. You don’t have anything to offer. You’re a pitiful excuse for a person. Who cares what you think? You suffocate people when you love them, you know that? It’s one of the reasons why no one will ever love you. And even if – what a surprise – they do…. You’re not naïve enough to think that would end your troubles, do you? (no, I don’t).

The funny thing is… I have already found the perfect man, the one I’ve been looking for all along (my projection, could it be, could it be?). But I’m, obviously, not good enough, in the wrong place, in the wrong time, with the wrong face and the wrong ways. It’ll never happen. Where are you, interesting men?


Marcos… do you remember me? You were my first love. Have you told anyone about your bisexual days?

Neto… would you stop and say ‘hi’ if we met somewhere? I will never love anyone the way I loved you, and a part of me will always, always desire for a hug. I have been sentenced to seek you in every men.

K., I would die if I met you. I couldn’t take life afterwads.

W., why don’t you break my heart at once? You’re the perfect man, and not because I breathe you every second… it’s because you have nearly everything I hold dear in (few) people. Maybe in another lifetime I will look at you, face to face, and cry endlessly not knowing why. When I die, my soul – if there is such a thing, which I doubt – will hopefully hover around and see you. I wish great happiness for you. And when I die, if there’s such a thing as staying on Earth for a while until I’m gone, I’d also like to stop for a minute and look at your future man – the luckiest by far, hoping he’ll treat you like I would. Hoping he’s loving you like I do. Hoping, the most, that he’s making you feel better about yourself, something I could never do.