shaila

Es América Latina, la región de las venas abiertas. Desde el descubrimiento hasta nuestros días, todo se ha trasmutado siempre en capital europeo o, más tarde, norteamericano, y como tal se ha acumulado y se acumula en los lejanos centros de poder. Todo: la tierra, sus frutos y sus profundidades ricas en minerales, los hombres y su capacidad de trabajo y de consumo, los recursos naturales y los recursos humanos. El modo de producción y la estructura de clases de cada lugar han sido sucesivamente determinados, desde fuera, por su incorporación al engranaje universal del capitalismo.
— 

Eduardo Galeano, Las Venas Abiertas de América Latina.

Circumstantial morality

You are a balloon animal

thin skin full of hot breath and

someone else’s saliva as they

twist and contort you as they please.



You are passed through multiple hands

that wish to claim you as their own–

greasy fingerprints left in a 

greedy maelstrom of desire



You were built to please 

to conform and to satisfy

to enter their dreams

in a breezy summer dress

and lacy lingerie– they want it all.



And you can be it all

and you can do it all

and you can not question

if what you’re doing is as

wrong as you’ve been told it is



(and you can hope he doesn’t ask

too many questions.)



You are a balloon animal,

conform to the life you've 

been blown, the state you’re in.

Do not question,

do not want for in wanting

for yourself, you will surely



burst.

youtube
Mirame sin contarme lo que ves
Sin preguntar si estas o estoy ahi
One Week

And you feel like a stranger in skin

Stretched thin over bent knees

There are cracks on your hand
You’ve noticed before
But you want to peel them apart
Tuck yourself in
And fall asleep.

You want to fall in love
With yourself
With your flaws
With your skin
With your ass
And forget your incessant
need to ask
Pretty boys and girls to notice you.

They don’t. And they won’t

And that should be fine
You should entwine your
heart with the love given
willingly. It should be enough.

But it’s not. Why is it not?

Why do you grow trees in your heart
Is it to climb the vines
Hide amongst the branches
And saw off your own limb?

There is a forest fire growing
Underneath a coffee cup
And it won’t be contained for much longer
It’ll E X P L O D E
in fat tears that can fit the galaxies
and the ocean within.

When you were younger
You’d cup your arms around your legs in the rain
call yourself a ship
And sail away.

But this time the current’s too strong
And the cracks are torn wide
And you’ve cut all the branches

It’s not a question of sink or swim
It’s how long do you hold your breath.