I wish you knew exactly what it is to have sensorial memory. You probably understand the concept.

I wish you knew how I feel when Louis puts his hands on me. He loves me, I know he does, and he wants to let me know it. But when his hands touch my skin, I can remember, not only in my head, but on my skin too all the times I’ve been defeated physically. When he says he loves me, and that I am beautiful…I have nothing to say, because I had never been told words like that before I met him. I don’t know what to do, and I automatically go back into my little world in which he can’t touch me or say anything, because I don’t want to feel or hear anything, from anyone. And what follows is a discussion with him because he doesn’t, nor does anyone understand why I’m so hostile even if they are treating me with love.

I wish you knew that security is not only about knowing that I am smart and good looking.

When you say I’m smart I don’t know what I should do, because deep inside I’m not sure if you’re lying to make me feel good. My tutor used to read the things I’d written in front of the classroom, and everyone would laugh. I didn’t know why they laughed. Maybe I am not a good writer, I’d think back then. I made sure to never let everyone read what I write or draw again. I’m still scared they will laugh at me.

And that when I get mad because you haven’t been on, or take long to reply, it is not because I’m selfish. Even now I have to yell at my mother for her to notice me. And then what follows is a fight because she’s busy. And that every fucking day I cry myself to sleep. Yeah, I too wish I was happy. But guess what, it takes more than will and a decision to get there.

People should only be arrogant when they have something good to be proud of, like intelligence. Beauty doesn’t count because it’s subjective and incidental, not fruit of hard work. And when they can carry an arrogant personality as it is.

Quantus tremor est futurus
Quando judex est venturus
Cuncta stricte discussurus. 

Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulcra regionum
Coget omnes ante thronum. 

Mors slopebit et natora
Cum resurget creatura
Judicanti responsura.

Lacrimosa dies ilia
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus. 
Huic ergo parce, Deus.

A ty govorila, chto vse budet prosto Chto eto nam nuzno, chto vse kak u vroslyh Zamochki, zmurochki.Razvody na slezy. Sluchaine, shnurochki, vse ochen’ ser’ezno Ved’… Trudno byt’ malchikom, esli ty - devochka Trudno byt’ devochkoi, esli ty - malch’chik A a mozhet ya budu Belochkoi? A a mozhet ty budesh’ Zaichikom? A esli nam ubezhat’ i ne oboznachit’sya? Probely ne nazhimat’ - poslednii ne spryachet’sya Razmazany kraskami, tupymi rasprosami. Rastanem’sya maskami i my stanem vzroslymi! No… Trudno byt’ malchikom, esli ty - devochka Trudno byt’ devochkoi, esli ty - malch’chik A a mozhet ya budu Belochkoi? A a mozhet ty budesh’ Zaichikom? A a mozhet ty budesh’ Zaichikom? Trudno byt’ malchikom, esli ty - devochka Trudno byt’ devochkoi, esli ty - malch’chik A a mozhet ya budu Belochkoi?

Louis finds it embarrassing to be out with me and me suddenly starting a fight with someone. But it was not suddenly. That person probably called me something that upsets me.

And then my aunts and cousins have a conversation with me, all wanting to tell me how WRONG I look when I fight males.

My schoolmates push me away, and I can feel their embarrassment when being with me. Everybody feels ashamed of being with me, they think it’s wrong, they think such a cute girl shouldn’t be so aggressive. But guess what; fuck you!

They are not outside with me, seeing the shit people say and sometimes try to do to me. They do not know how it feels to have always been told how weak you are, how;

GIRLS ARE FRAIL, THEY MUST ALWAYS LOOK BEAUTIFUL, NOT SAY BAD WORDS, THEY DON’T FIGHT.

But if I don’t fight, there is never anybody protecting me.

This is not a demand for someone to stand up for me, but it is me justifying that I am my own savior.

Come on! We all are beasts, we all have thirst for blood and gore in our veins, always latent. But you with your stupid social identity shit like to pretend you have a higher status, that you are somehow above others, that you even know what’s right and wrong and are very right because you believe in God and get scared at erotic and violent scenes. All these moral prayers are built up on lies, and on shit that came out some huge idiot’s ass.

But I won’t swallow it, no. You will. You can all keep your stupid shit.

Language bearers. Photographers. Diary makers.

You with your memory are dead, frozen.

Lost in a present that never stops passing.

Here lives the incantation of matter.

A language forever.

Could you be as beautiful as you seem?

Those bright, unable to lie eyes will be mine. You are mine.

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