Luanda Fuenzalida
Bio
Hello there! I mostly write poetry, which somehow always has a sort of sad or dark tone. I am from Colombia, but moved to New York recently and this city never stops amazing me.
Thank you for checking it out, it's so nice to find you here :)
Stories (4)
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Words
It's infuriating, words are infuriating. Every time you want to express an idea, the receiver interprets your words completely differently, and from there… for some reason, it all goes downhill. You look in the mirror; why is it that every time you see your face you just want to erase every detail? Your mouth, that's the element you hate the most. This wretched thing placed upon your face is the breeder of insults, of errors, of cries, of screams. You see the lines engraved on your lips, they disgust you. You start biting those lines; your teeth stabbing into the soft meat, and you taste the blood. Part of you recoils at the taste of the rose-red liquid. Another part of you (the one that's controlling your actions at the moment) doesn't care. But you still wipe the blood, with the ever so slight pressure that makes more blood emerge from your new small wound. They sting now; those lips of yours. Yet after all this, you keep picking at them; biting, scratching, peeling of layers of fragile skin. You are fed up with them: with the words that come out of them. You keep doing this to the extent where you can't feel them at all. For a short second you are happy; this numbness you feel pleases you. Even though your now vulnerable lips are in pain, they won't cause pain, they won't hurt others like they used to. You look back at the mirror, and your eyes can't look away. Your tears fall and mix with the dark colour; it almost looks like you're crying tears of blood. Your beautiful face that you didn't want to exist, is gone. It's now ruined, turned into something horrid; you see the faded, scratched away outline of your mouth, but it's just flesh. Tender, raw flesh.
By Luanda Fuenzalida4 years ago in Poets
