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sábado, 31 de marzo de 2018

Neil Hilborn, o por qué la poesía es tan maravillosa


She was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on. 

I want her back so bad, I leave the door unlocked. I leave the lights on.  
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And your lips are so soft I can't actually tell when we're touching,
Like braiding hair underwater,


'Cause kissing you is kinda like that:
Unhealthy,
And will probably end in disfigurement,
But baby, bring on the facial scars and lead poisoning.


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The first time I saw her... Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared. When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes. Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips...
Or the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or fucking talking to her...
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked— when she talked— when she talked— when she talked ---when she talked;
When she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was just making her late for work... When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking... When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line. She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but...
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars...
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.
How she blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out…
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.

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In second grade, we did an experiment with static electricity:
We rubbed balloons on our heads and stuck them to walls.
And kissing you is kinda like that: My hair stands on end, I get shocked when I touch things,
And I want to tell you STUPID stuff,

Like kissing you is a bundle of kittens colliding with my face at point five miles an hour.

It's like being shot by a dart gun made of hummingbirds that shoots darts made of hummingbirds.

And your lips are so soft I can't actually tell when we're touching,
Like braiding hair underwater.
Or napping under a blanket filled with rainbows and clouds and your favourite books.

When you kiss me the cartoon devil and angel on my shoulders climb into my ears, lick all my neurons and start fucking on my brain stem.

And if you were a 300 pound professional weight lifter and I were a Kia Sorento you could drag me ANYWHERE with your lips.
Kissing you in patience is impossible, like peeling paint off of a wall with glittery stickers; or cooking a turkey with a lighter.

You remind me of the time when in second grade Bethany Hobcurk called me a freak-face and stabbed me in the arm with a pencil,

'Cause kissing you is kinda like that:
Unhealthy,
And will probably end in disfigurement,
But baby, bring on the facial scars and lead poisoning.
'Cause when you kiss me you are dangling me off a bridge by my belt.

You are the screen door of my childhood, all teeth and swinging, so full of holes you can never keep anything in.

You are every black eye.
You are a semi truck, and I am a turtle with two broken legs and a broken heart.

You are illegal fireworks falling downstairs together,
driving on four flat tires,
playing frisbee at night with a saw blade.

Kissing you is like falling out of a 37 story window, exploding into a cloud of robins and reappearing on the ground with my mouth full of feathers.

And when I can't kiss you I try to find the static electricity in my apartment. I dig around in wall sockets, I change lightbulbs with my teeth and I make out with the toaster.

And I know we've only been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, but baby, when you kiss me, I can't remember my middle name or which one is my left foot.

So come over tonight. We'll shuffle around the apartment in our socks and we'll let our lips drift toward each other, like tectonic plates made out of kittens. 

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