Esse é meu Lemonade – poemas

Esse é meu Lemonade – poemas



what are we doing to each other?
why is the world so ugly?

that we have to fuck, kill and smother
every last damn good thing that lasts and lives
and loves and breathes and ends.

right now, it ends.

in that same moment when the Lexapro ends
you’re broken – i’m broken – this ends

we had chosen one another and then
fucked, killed and smothered.

closed every open (open?)
doors, eyes, ribcages

the moment i’ve stopped moaning
secrets piling up in the backstage


you’re broken?
i’m broken.

right now, it ends.

the hoping, the omen, the smoking, the stolen

the atonement.
we’re broken.


for all the girls my husband picked
(to break me in pieces)
and talk and lie and cease his
little male insecurities

i say:

i’m sorry that he used you
as vessels for a needy ego,
as a shoe, a pursue, an avenue
to a mental handjob

how could he be such a slob?
with my feelings? with whole human beings?
as you? and me?

is it the love of the screw?
or is it this maleness spree?

i am finally free.


at this moment, i hate you less
and love you more

what did you expect?

don’t worry,
i’ll hate again in just a sec.


how many wonderful women
being ripped apart by vile men?

infatuated with their own maleness
as well trained dogs, chasing their tail

for how long patriarchy will fuck up our lives?
and to which scale?

destroying women, girlfriends, wives,
their faces wet, sad, and pale?

and how many women have, like knives,
cut their sister’s throat in exchange

for the cheap ego boost that arrives?
when men are men and we cry?

and the concept of friendship, that survives
despite men, and then die

for how many women have left
their sisters alone in the night?


how many hearts are breaking
at this very second?

and how many times have we asked
this single question?

have you ever written a book of lies
while staring deep into your lover’s eyes
as if they were round globes mades of skies
right from van gogh’s starry night?

are you mastering the art of deceit?
painting whole pictures with the blood i bleed?
is this your masterpiece? learning to cheat?
and hide? and then pressing repeat?

is this the spreadsheet of our love’s portrayal?
column A, the things you said
and column B, the betrayal?

have i made you up inside my head?

how dark, how bittersweet, how sad
is it when i think i want you back?


56% of people cheat

you brought me here,
this page of a magazine,

a statistic I feared

yet, here I am.

I am only 25
hundreds of lives

your honesty –
what’s left of it.
new promises –
I want to believe.

how can I
– or anyone –
believe in a man?

I should have asked
that first time
you took my hand.


the murdered sex drive
the dry pussy
the blind longing that I’ve
given up, biting my juicy
roman in the land
of gods, nodding to bright
realizations as you touched
my hand last night
that it doesn’t take much
to kill a love, I am only 25
and already dead inside.


You wrote a poem to me
I cried, so sweet,
pregnant with belief

You talked about honesty
it was so quick
3 minutes (it goes so fast)
the nurse said
(if you want an universe)

I want to leave
and go back, back, back
to you

Do what we always do
(Fuck, fight, and fall
in love too.


To forgive is to love is to live
is to forget is to remember
is to come back is to pretend
is to endure is to be sure
is to not know is to trust
is to lust is to want is to need
is to breathe is to cringe
is to kneel is to feel
is to bleed is to break
is to be is to ache.


This is for the love that I lost
and for the pain that I gained.

This is for the feelings that frost
only to warm up again.

This is for the friends that you cost
me, and for the ones that remain.

This is for the crazy, the most
real thing in this train.


Asking for advice for people in a mental institution,
is like writing letters for the dead.
As they tear apart our constitution,
the sadness of millions of brazilians fill my head.

my depression is selfish
floating and glowing like jellyfish
at night
The ashes of a relationship
that died.

Asking for advice for people in a mental hospital,
is like drowning in butterflies.
Their wings caress you, you fall
still expecting to fly.

The lack of shoelaces.
This is a windowless city
You were greedy
and now I’m here.

Asking for advice for people in a psychiatric ward,
is like going to war with a flower.
It’s pointless, even silly, against power.

The ghost of your wedding bend
is everything on my finger at this hour.


I imagine the gods,
My womb, pregnant,
Your voice, confessions,
Apologies, “I’m sorries”,

I imagine the angels,
I curl, twirl into you,
heart racing.
You count, one two,
The rhythm and the blues,
embracing us.

I imagine the demons,
They look at me,
They smile at your
The lust, the trust,

I imagine the souls,
My insides, yours,
You say, “my love’s not
You want me, you need me,

That I
can be
please see
you nod
you say
a little god
in a small way.


the end, with beyoncé

So, what are you gonna say at my funeral, now that you’ve killed me?
“Here lies the body of the love of my life
Whose heart I broke without a gun to my head
Here lies the mother of my children, both living and dead
Rest in peace, my true love, who I took for granted
Most bomb pussy, who because of me, sleep evaded
Her shroud is loneliness, her God was listening
Her Heaven would be a love without betrayal
Ashes to ashes, dust to sidechicks”