what is my work

 is it to feed and bathe? is it to cook? is it to write? is it to smile at strangers? what is my work? and when will it be done? is it to find a line and follow it until it vanishes in the sand? is it to chase a butterfly so that it doesn't die alone in my house? is it to spend time with some friendly faces? what is my work? and how long can i do it for without knowing? and when will i know?

everything wrong

a hand sliding down your front bones crunching on bones so many times to say maybe, no, later and now, this a splinter deep inside your raw skin will it come out?

motion

i look to my left and my body springs a gigantic somersault. someone switches on the largest washing machine, set on a roller coaster. i try to climb up, but the boat is sinking and me with it, like those grains of stale rice i watched spin down the drain last night. round and round and round. and what if nothing is ever moving? this brain, that brain. how do you ever trust anything again?

movement

one day, a girl travelled for an extraordinarily long time, on a bus that took ages to get anywhere. next to her, there was a door. when this door opened, as it did every time the bus took a dangerous curve, a gust of memories would flood in and impregnate the bus with viscous feelings. one day, on this bus, there was sex steaming the windows. movie sex and yet uncomfortable, awkward and hilarious. sex that was clear and undisputable. that had them tutting across the aisle. [story unfolds, make up your own] some time later, the bus made an unexpected stop, everybody left, and the girl got on the driving seat. or at least that's what she thought.

movement

Una publicación compartida de Helena Suárez (@ladelentesuy) el 1 Ago, 2018 a las 3:09 PDT

ballenas

voy a mudarme a la costa
y a vivir con las ballenas
que no me confunden
con una roca
con un salvavidas
con un tiburón come-personas
con una luz deslumbrante
con un mar de lágrimas
que no me confunden

4.49am

in this diary... so old. so battered. so on and off.
here i record, remember, fantasise my life's matter(ing)s.
i re-write-create myself. iteratively. error-prone.
(thank you, Butler)

one day you came in, you looked around and it seemed like you might just stay. but, no.
my heart almost exploded.
i was folded inside out. literally. at 4.49am.

moonstruck

so, then. fragile equilibrium. checking for signs. holding on, holding back, holding my breath. there is nowhere near enough time in the world to tell you every story I can trace for you, but I will try.

...y vamos generando apagones y contando cuentos y mirando estrellas y viviendo en la luna

Una publicación compartida de Helena Suárez (@ladelentesuy) el 1 Ago, 2018 a las 3:09 PDT

a bottle of mineral water

upside down steps. upside down elephants. upside down walls.
a bottle of mineral water rests -vibrating ever so slighty-
a monument to the endless possibility for upheaval

quiero

i want to tell you stories
and discuss important things
interlace
render
go deep web

tableau

a hole in the ground of unfathomable depth, its shining light pulsing you inevitably in. a brilliant smile, uncomprehending. the precise definition of the concept of dissociation. and a question hovering over the edge of consciousness and despair: where did the Calvinor Blush times go?

just-ice

i know it isn't all darkness, gloom and cold. i know. i know. but it's just that the idea of justice, sometimes, a lot of the times, seems like the cruelest of human inventions.

metaphor

i once saw a window being slowly closed down, completely, brick by brick. one on top of the other. slops of mortar. more bricks. a man working fast. distressing to watch, this closure, this erasure. this end. later, i walked past the smoothed surface, double take. the window's presence a mere memory, that will surely fade.

swimming pool

when i was a child there was a swimming pool. under an invisible pine tree. surrounded by slippery slopes. when. i. when. if it was easy to write about it,... there is something about the blue glittering surface, trees upside down, fallen clouds, birds trapped in a circle. maybe you can go there, spend time underwater. hold your breath and count 10, 9, 8,... if it was easy to leave, i would.

shining stars

we used to. shine, yeah.
we had sparkling conversations in glitzy bars. brilliant ideas. dazzling friends...
on radiant summer days, yes.
we were building a bright future. we would show them.
glowing reviews.
incandescent.
somethings were glossed over. some things. dullness.
lost in the luminosity of our stories.
you were not even a glint in your mother's eye.
and we blazed away, particles out in all directions.
until all that was left was the shimmering embers of our golden past.

Shine

Una publicación compartida de Helena Suárez (@ladelentesuy) el 28 de Oct de 2017 a la(s) 12:36 PDT

headache

this. words on a screen. headache. cloudy skies. a Norse God. novacalamina. tiny figures of either floating behind your eyelids. tight stomach. your present absence. a funereal pyre for future playful imaginings. altar of masculinity. a single rivulet of blood streaming down your legs. desolation. de-solation. the end of solitude. of sunshine. of walks between bars. patched together, frayed. we once joked about your triumphal arrival, angel song, arc of triumph, welcome wreath. I'll remember you there, floating just above the land, making stories with your tightened strings.