Valentine's day make up 💔

When you're lonely, and you look well only for yourself...

When you're in love with the world, but the world doesn't love you back...

When you have a huge crush on a guy that is incapable of liking you...

When everytime you try to fall in love you step on dog crap and everything goes to hell...

When it looks like love wasn't made for you...

When no one will kiss you with honesty...

When you're looking for certain kind of relationship no one else wants...

You always have yourself to love...

And that's okay.

AbrilRouge 

Dead words.

You're the agony of my verses and the silence between my legs. You're dead words inside my head, dying every time you turn away. I can never see you in my dreams, it's maybe because I don't know you that well. I often feel like I'm losing my time thinking about you, cause you won't see more that you want to see in me. We can dance like there is no tomorrow, only caring about our dancing tones, turquoise paradise inside of our souls. But you like going around and thinking too much, you like ignoring me like nothing happens, because you say I would do the same. And when I'm sober and I seem not to care about you, you're all that's in my brain. Am I wasting my time or am I losing my head?

AbrilRouge.

52 week photography challenge: Week4- Flowers.

This time I decided to concentrate more on the shape and  the composition rather than the color, this is why I chose black and white. Hope you like it!

Roses.

Daisies.

Foliage.

Calla.

Hydrangeas.

Kalanchoes.

Geranium.

abril|әƃnoɹ

Throw me back.

Today I felt empty again. I keep feeling like I can't talk to anyone, so I talk to you in that segment of time that splits slumber and awakening. I hate that the years have passed and that I can still feel like I have something left to tell you, right before you disappear and I have to go back to reality and deal with disgrace.
Where are you? In my mind. I crave, I starve for that feeling I had back then, all you made me feel, so authentical, so fresh, pure, hurtful, tragic and then... Nothing.
And I keep feeling like there's something I haven't told you yet.
Did I tell you that I loved you? 'Cause I did, like I've never loved again. The passion... I can't help but feeling like there's something wrong with me, 'cause I can't feel it anymore. Even if I try to catch it, like your breath when you talk too close and I feel your  warmth on my skin, it just flies away. I just fly away, like a paper plane. Like a duck migrating. Like a fly looking for shit to land on. Like now... Wait. I was talking about you.
I can't even write anymore, all that comes out is this graphic prose, as if every bone that holds my flesh was powder and I couldn't hold myself for long. I hate myself, I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. It's like I'm in a house and I've lived here for years. I'm tired. Let me out. Not even I think I'm right, so don't dare to tell me you did it because I told you to. Can't you see I am such a negative person? Why would you let yourself be influenced by me? Don't make a fool of yourself.
Sorry. Don't ask the ill to shut up when they hurt.
I wasn't ill when I talked to you, I was exploding, like thousands of volcanos of vodka, and you were an alcoholic crowd gathered around my crater, opening your mouth to receive the sacred blessing of my outrageous personality.
We were two holes on the earth.  I passed by your house when I was in school, everyday for six years and we came to meet so far from where we had thousands of possibilities of coming across each other. And we weren't holes anymore, we turned into the highest mountains, and there was snow over our summits.
Tonight I'm wearing that old damn shirt you gave me when I was at your house. I remember like it was yesterday... You and I at truancy class, naked in the shower. I gave you a hat, one you wore for a couple picturesque scenes of you masterfully playing the guitar. We smoked pot in that broken glass bong you insisted on taping over and over, because we were so young and poor at that time.
I hate everything, I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. I am like a house a man built with his own hands one day of january. A house that was always in the same fucking street, in the suburbs of some forgotten city.
But you're still my finest muse.

abril|әƃnoɹ

52 week photography challenge: Week3- Candy.

Cotton candy

Chocolate.

Lollipop.

Bubblegum.

Gummy bears.

Puffs.

abril|әƃnoɹ

Learn to use what you have and you'll never lack of anything.

Strangers.

We haven't taken much seriously the fact that we hurt each other so badly. And it's fine, cause the branches of the trees don't have eyes, and they don't look back to see how much they've grown and what leaves have died in the process. They just grow new leaves, and I write new stories. 

I am not a tree, not even a branch. And I can still remember you. No matter if I like it or not. I do, my bodie does remember. Somewhere deep inside me, there's a guy jacking off to the soft porn videos we recorded in a jacuzzi, at a motel with a name in Spanish, the name of a girl no one ever loved. Somewhere else, even deeper, another guy jacks off with two videos, videos of us making out with strangers. It's weird how you can lose control of the deepest feelings, just as if it happened outside your flesh. But I'm okay, you are too. And we write new stories. We are cold, after boiling like geisers and reaching the highest. We come down, because everything that rises, falls equally.

You were loved, like a girl named Valerie with a boyfriend named Joe. Like a shore without rocks, and a sea dancing in front of it, with turquoise movements and white clouds watching them from above. 

I have no poetry left inside, but I can easily imagine this words forming picturesque landscapes into your mind. I certainly do. 

I make echoes, they sound empty inside your ears, but I fight a war that remains unholy, and it seems like I can't make mistakes. I fight a war that remains unholy, and I am a stranger to myself, I am a stranger to the world, but I recognize my face reflected in antique mirrors and songs that I heard some weeks ago. 

Everyday I live different emotions, and I think this isn't bad, because a guy named Andy said once that something is special if you do it once in your life or absolutely everyday. Otherwise it loses its magic. I think he's right, just like everyone who talks from experience. 

I wake up too early to notice I'm already late, I like all colors of flowers from pink to gray, and no one has pity there's only the illusion of always counting on yourself.