My grandma told me that she was not allowed to be herself.
She told me about the past, a foreign country - they did things differently over there.
She would look into the mirror, destroyed.
Tiny pieces of herself reflected.
She couldn’t recognize her own image. lost.
She told me a big word that should mean something.
I shivered at its sound. I felt the ghostly hands that force-fed assimilation and unfamiliarity into my tongue as I repeated it.
I imagined beyond the grey photos.
The people pressed together, mausoleum of lost and found, of excruciating hope, of Latin dignity.
Exalt the center man. Bright eyes, forced smile, military uniform, hands in the air.
Massacre written in his every move, white teeth bleeding ghost stories.
Washed himself to German bone, European ancestrality.
He seemed so little to me - ordinary.
Grandma laughed. Her smile riverbed the pride, of who outlived their torturers
The smile lingered at each corner...
Arising from above
The claims already decided
The North arrives with esteem
Searching for the possessions already possessed.
With an superior look
And distinguished faces, they stare
to the south, the backyard, the best source of capital
The south of the tropical.
And with airs of imperialism
They rip our humanisms
Cracking the harnesses
And the lashes begin
From the martyr making machine
Because we are all
Mere colonized who sing
Hymns that overflow untied knots
We are the place where the ships dock
Full of taxes
Forced Death Posts
A declaration of end to the freedom to be
To look up to heaven and believe
A sudden denial of existing
That lasts and tortures
Each cursed unit
From this sad fate that is doomed
You are made of ridicule.
You in the dark
So raw, immature
The search for a new life
Of the unreached cure
And you ask yourself: what am I made of, haughty?
And through the flesh, the bone of the muscle
Will there be matter, character, or just ridicule?
I wish you could wash the blood, remove the impurities
To be able to see for the first time with clarity what the human being is made of.
Maybe inside you are just a stranger.
The glass presents the saliva
From an insatiable and energizing mouth
I wanted the cure of addiction
That completes his leisure and fills my torment
I revere myself for a healing
For you are made of nothing
Only vigor swearing that you spit in my face
That catches me and then trims me, that collects me and shrinks me
You always wake up the same
Full of the drink that never satisfies your ego
Latinity. A profound river that runs inside me.
I shiver with its coldness.
I embrace its warmth.
I revolt with its calmness.
I provoke its false stability.
Latina. I follow the curves of my body, tracing the too wide scares, the elastic skin that didn’t encompass its rapid growth.
The diversity blossoms in the open air for all to see.
It’s present in my reflection, molding my identity with small pieces of an entire people.
Latin America. A river that follows their path
Persisting to walk even without its legs
My veins are open, bleeding with the hurt of the past and the uncertainty of the future
From and to itself
In Rio de Janeiro, empty hands gasp for broken promises.
Fulfillment traces the plump mouths, reflections starred by voided eyes.
The wind picks the frenetic rhythm of samba, runs along the street holes, passes the plastic yellowed sand, and dissolves into the atomic heat, shaking in sweat.
The tiredness of wanting is palpable and heavy.
It is written in each black skin, the people trapped and forbidden into the high favelas.
The houses are orange. Little ants lost and confused runs into the cavity of night, the fear of being misunderstood, misshapen. Grateful for whatever space they can fit.
In Rio, no one remains the same. They love Brazilian women’s bodies.
Their curves are an invitation,
Their tights are edible,
Their smile is pure bliss.
No one knows that their mouth tastes resentful, their eyes are glimpsed with sadness and their skin is filled with dark purple spots. Recondite into its own deep.
They pray for epilogues, time machines, delusional...
Ah, one day
I will look into the deep of your eyes
In the depths of your black pupil
And I will say that you planted sunflowers on me
They grow and curl up in my guts,
The long green stems go up to my throat,
They blur my vision,
Steal the air from my poor lungs.
I will say that like a sunflower, I search for the sun
The light that emanates from your smile
From the heat of your fingers' calluses
And the brightness which shines from your eyes
I'm spinning, twisting in your search
Recreating myself on the way
Losing my shape, raw.
Where are you?
Curling up in my own roots,
I don't see you...
Tearing out my own petals
Until there is no more light.
The sun is gone
And there is no more burning
Stems break in strong bursts
The hang with the lost balance
And all the sunflowers inside me wither ...
Are you Brazilian? Oh, I love Brazilian women!
The deep voice echoed into my ears. The phrase came from a man standing in front of me, his wide anxious eyes shining through my body as a sign of satisfaction. Instability rushed feverishly, unbalancing my sense of reality and causing tremblings in my hands. I could feel the sourness of my throat, words scattering inside me, recondite and hidden.
My life in Brazil rushed through my eyes, glimpses of finitudes and infinitudes of my existence shaping itself in form of memories. The first time I acknowledge myself proudly as a woman was after understanding the brave women who came before me and made my existence possible. Listening to the stumbling voices of my family, I could portrait my ancestors, young germans embarking on a ship into the unknown of the Atlantic ocean. Their courage lightened my soul, as I faced the fear that erupted every summer. The heat consumed me in...