Ella no imagina cuanto se le extraña
aqui en este cuarto con sus telarañas
paredes mal hechas focos que no encienden
hoy en esta tarde gente que no entiende
como es que su padre le dejo aqui sola
le dio por castigo aqui en esta alcoba
echó llave a la puerta y se marcho a embriagar
si saber que ya no volvería esta tarde, 
ni ninguna otra, ni en ningun momento,
todavía se escucha de noche el lamento, 
de la niña rubia, 
de los ojos claros, 
cuando una mañana hacía muchos años, 
su madre no estaba ya por ningun lado, 
solo en esa carta que le había dejado,
que se despedía pidiendo perdón,
callaba georgina frente a aquel cajón,
donde le tenía, 
donde le miraba, 
en la fotografía, 
la que le quedaba, 
se marchó su padre y ella arrodillada, 
todavía esa tarde, todavía esperaba, 
como paladeaba cada dulce nota, 
cuando se sentaba en la sillita rota, 
dulce melodía a la soledad, 
que solo sus versos puedo tararear.

Nadie la escucho, ni nadie dio consuelo,
cuando se pasó de la sillita al suelo, 
al caer la noche tomaba un rincón, 
hizo un santuario de esta habitación,
se cubre los ojos, se frota las manos,
diminutas tiemblan con sus siete años, 
como se resiste su cuerpo a morir, 
el invierno insiste, el corazón en latir, 
se cubre de sueños, cubre su cabeza,
unas veces canta, 
otras veces reza, 
¿donde habrá quedado la niña traviesa?


Not Sorry

I’ve tried forgetting you but that didn’t seem to work. So I’ve come to terms with who you are and who you’ve been. The only thing I wish you could see what you really could be. Your past doesn’t make you nor decide what you are. And I know you’re not sorry, but I forgive you.



You gave me perspective on my shortcomings.
After all, they are the same as yours.

You taught me the meaning of irony.
You said you didn’t want to lose me;
and decided to leave.

Finally, because of you I realized
That I do the exact same thing.

—  k.a.t


Russian Ballerina

Sonrisas Traslucidas

I’ve contemplated over these few months if I ever truly loved you.
Maybe I loved an idea.
Maybe I loved a feeling.
If I say that you are just like everyone else,
then I too, will have conformed to my own accusations.
If I say that I hate you,
I’ll become wretched and bitter.
Honestly I thought you were like me,
And maybe we’re too alike.
Because I did love you. The person. The soul.
The soul that was beautiful, unsightly, warm, and scarred.
The soul like mine.

But the love we gave each other was damaged; I found both sadness and clarity in the midst of us.
You couldn’t open your arms, because like me, you fear being vulnerable more than being alone.
Like me, you wear translucent smiles to hide the monster beneath.
Yet we both know that behind this monster is a frightened child, needy and confused.

Maybe we were both just scared runaways with nowhere else to turn.


El Cartógrafo

I think about your thighs,' he wrote in the second letter,and the warm, moist smell of your skin in the morning, and the tiny eyelash in each corner of your eye that I always notice when you first roll over to look at me. I don’t know why you are better and more beautiful than anybody else. I don’t know why your body is something I can’t stop thinking about, why those little flaws and ridges on your back are lovely to me or why the pale soft bottoms of your New Jersey feet that always wore shoes are more poignant than any other feet, but they are. I thought I would have more time to chart your body, to map its poles, its contours and terrains, its inner regions, both temperate and torrid - a whole topography of skin and muscle and bone. I didn’t tell you, but I imagined a lifetime as your cartographer, years of exploration and discovery that would keep changing the look of my map. It would always need to be redrawn and reconfigured to keep up with you. I’m sure I’ve missed things..or forgotten them, because half the time I’ve been wandering around your body blind drunk with happiness. There are still places I haven’t seen.

Siri Hustvedt // What I Loved


Oh darling, your demons are so great,
Filled with guilt and disgust, and fueled with hate,
You say your mind is too full, but darling, how is your heart?
Can you fill in the holes to fix this crucial work of art?
You’re soul is consumed with the chase,
Oh darling, how these demons love an unfair race.



An ancient word, kalon is defined as inward beauty manifested on the outside. With Greek origins, both Plato and Aristotle recognized the beauty of the heart and the importance of being noble, even in aesthetics. Kalon supplements goodness and compliments beauty in an ethical sense. Greek philosophy draws an important distinction between kalon and what is “beautiful.” Note, kalon is solely applicable if an entity is deemed beautiful by demonstrating their worth and honorability, their projection becomes the ideal beauty, both physically and morally.



I don’t write anymore.
It’s not because I lack the motivation nor the inspiration, it’s because of them.

The people I want to write about, the ones who make emotions flow from every pore of my being, who leave me to drown in all of the words that flood my mind.

I could write epics about your smile or laugh but if I did, it would change everything.
Right now with all of my unsaid words, I am safe and protected; but if I unleash these gates and everything comes spilling out I won’t be able to run or hide from the truth anymore.
I’ll finally see how deeply you affect every bit of my soul, and then I won’t be able to escape.
Every time I write I’ll think of you.
But, you see, as long as I don’t write I’ll be safe from the madness and the pain that I’d feel when you leave.



To me

To me, when someone wrongs you, you both share the weight of that wrongdoing – the pain of it weighs on both of you. Forgiveness, then, means choosing to bear the full weight all by yourself.

Veronica Roth // Allegiant

If You See Her Say Hello


Letras a Theo

In fact, I have no real friend but you, and when I am in low spirits, I always think of you. I only wish you were here, that we might again talk together about moving to the country.

Vincent van Gogh // 22 July 1883


Más Que Lobos

We wear clothes, and speak, and create civilizations, and believe we are more than wolves. But inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce and that is who we are.

Anthony Marra // A Constellation of Vital Phenomena


Lady Lazarus

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath // Lady Lazarus


This Just Isn't Happiness




There is nothing sacred about literature, it is damned from one end to the other. There is nothing in literature but change and change is mockery. I’ll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it’ll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.

William Carlos Williams // Kora in Hell: Improvistaions