sorry I wasn't there to catch the last bus home

Helena Violeta, 20, lost


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4th February, 2014

Come here, show me what it is like to be swallowed by a dream and shaken around a few times.

The tenderness of love and the blind force of passion, smashed into one, there beside me. All of the frames I wish I had recorded or turned into music, if only they weren’t too fast to ever be captured.

It is when you can’t control yourself anymore that I become insatiable. All sounds pile up in my mind, only to be followed by heavy breathing and a burst of colours and blurry vision.That moment is when I burst open and become a warm breeze, so fleeting. I just want to grab a hold of you, every centimeter, never loosing my grip. Only then, I feel the need to yell so that, as I am being pulled back to the surface, my voice echoes.  

I fell in love with post-its all over again.

I fell in love with post-its all over again.

20th, August, 2013

could you ever fall in love with me, truly?

I really don’t think so. Your feelings are not to be trusted.
could you ever forget about everyone else and dive deep?
could you ever scream my name so loud that everyone would hear you?
would you ever desire to isolate yourself by my side and take the worst of my soul away?

Your kisses make me smile. All the bubbles that escape to the surface. The bottom of the river was so far away that day, I never got to touch it. My neck was bruised, so were my knees. I looked at myself in the public bathroom mirror and deemed myself unworthy of it all. All the stigmata your passion leaves.
is this all gonna disappear as fast as it did the last time?

22nd, July, 2013

The difference between attraction and love crushes me. To know I will never be an other half, an imperative. Never one of the beautiful women they fall head-over-heals for, forgetting everyone else. They were perfection. I am just a fortuitous case, a bunch of coincidences bundled to appear before your eyes, as an illusion. I will never become a need.
Life tricks me into thinking I will succeed on my own. Then it trips me, sets its foot in my path and says ‘You should have no expectations’.
And so I don’t, I’m constantly at ground zero, after my very own implosion.

8th, July, 2013

I am my prettiest where the underground meets the daylight. But how could you know? You always stop at the darkest part, where the lights go out. There, it seems I will never be able to see again. Only night, fallen into darkness. I’m left at my worst, helpless without my wings or protector. 

Your kisses were a blindfold, keeping me from seeing the real you. A pit of despair lined with soft cotton and burnt hair. I drowned in concern for my reputation and my future. I didn’t want to be lonely and old. I wanted no reminders of what I did wrong. But that can’t be.
I want to learn to be myself around others who care. 

21st, June,2013

You wouldn’t like my copy of your favourite book. See, I really like it too. So I made it a sort of journal. A lot of it describes me, my views on life, love and people. I underlined my favourite passages, the ones I felt passionate about. 
Sometimes, due to all the talk about creation of beauty, I felt inspired and awake. So I doodled around the page and chapter numbers, companions for my lonely drawings. Other times, I felt my fake writer’s heart beating. So I composed sentences for my own life’s novel. For that I apologise, I was tainting those meaningful pages with my gibberish. It looks dirty and tarnished. It captures me perfectly. It’s the third time I’m reading it, not that much for someone who treats books as religious doctrines. I see some essence of you in it. I see a lot of the essence of world.
I remember the time I sat at this very table and wrote you a letter you would never answer. I’ve grown so much since then, I’ve become so different. And all we called ours seems to be separated by a sea of life, a lifetime of others. I’ve surely wasted myself with all of this, thinking of lies as if they were true. It takes another’s lips, as vile as they may be, to wash away my careful zeal. It takes honesty to make me take notice of beauty at its purest, barest nature. 

And my history, my baggage, it keeps on piling up. Though I’m always proud of my loved ones, I was never that proud of myself.

17th, June, 2013

I find myself odd. I give so much to the ones I love.
Don’t put me through the lie detector, I wouldn’t pass. I never intended to lie, I just wanted them to feel good. I gave everything I had. I gave my passion, my devotion, my writings, my body. I withheld my own desires in order to make them happy. And afterwards, I discovered it was useless. They took it all too seriously. All my effort is a poetic gesture, I try to produce beauty in everything. My actions are produced, with utmost care, in order to become worthy of some imaginary Czech novel.  
Someone told me to stop acting this way. I’m not sure if I’m capable. 

30th, April, 2013

Solitude, 
        within your mind, have you kept any of my Love? Or was I left behind completely this time?
I promised I would always love you, even after I said farewell. I know I keep on coming back but I wanted to make sure. We were never truly an “us” and that was mostly my fault. I never gave you enough. My presence was always incomplete. Half of the endearment, half of the passion. Half the effort, only coming to you for validation.
I dishonoured Love with my steps, every one of them more selfish than the next. I dishonoured love letters by writing them with such a purpose instead of letting them flow. I should have sent you post-its, so pure in their short essence. I could have sent you my breath, lost so many times I wouldn’t have missed it.
Don’t forgive my mistakes or I will use your compassion and turn it into rubbish. Just don’t eradicate this representation
 of me for good.

6th, March, 2013

I never took my handcuffs off. Maybe because I feel I need my own safe-haven.
You come inside. You ask for forgiveness and beg for me to remove them. But you never gave me any sure proof of being able of holding on to me.
You, with those hips and those hands. Sexual essence of my psyche at that moment. I can’t stand you at times, you become too much.
But I’m like that with every single one of them. They’re all too much for me. Their lips eating up my passion. Their hands smothering me in dreams, ‘till I reach ecstasy.
I’m not quite sure if these screams are of pain or pleasure. This obsession of mine for control only leads me to become unable of distinguishing between them.
I never know what to say when you walk through this door. Sometimes I want to give you these chains. But you don’t need them, you’re way much stronger than I’ll ever be. You don’t need irrelevant facts to cover up your body.  

23rd, February, 2013

I sent my passion away. Oh lord, it won’t stop floating. It comes back for a few seconds, like it is taunting me with its charm. But then, as it catches my eye, it disappears. 
It’s true, even though I can’t resist you, I’ve grown cautious of these mishaps.
You know I can’t trust you. But still, I can’t just wander off now. I’ve accustomed myself to the way you look disappointed when I make up an excuse to leave before our time is up. I can’t stop this now.   


24th, April, 2013


Your passion is misleading. It’s a spark when seen from far away, dimming down the closer I get. It’s a rime that I keep repeating but runs away every time I try to write it down. 
It’s that deceptive step when I’m feeling way too dizzy to concentrate. It’s that time I couldn’t stop laughing when I thought I was crying. When I couldn’t feel the tips of my fingers but I didn’t tell you.
You’re the flavour I can’t brush or spit out. You’re the one that dies in my fantasies, leaving me alone to think. You’re the one I never waited for and yet, I’m always anxious about.

You’re my latest one, my last one, my next one. 

3rd, February, 2013

Notes I left for my lovers on the kitchen cupboard #1:

Don’t worry. By my bed there are always Band-Aids so I can put them on your sores.

Now that my cigarettes have all burned down, time seems almost irrelevant.

I miss your nicotine-soaked fingers.

I’m so happy you remembered this song.

Never, ever put your hands around my throat again. I wouldn’t know what to say next.

 

I love it when you paint your fingernails red.

Why can’t you just let me be alone?

I found a hair on my pillow today and I’m sure it’s not mine.

The air seems lighter after you.

 

Let me know when you finally decide to break your promise.

Keep the shackles on my wrists, they help me pretend I’m safe.

Your arms are scarred with my ecstasy. It makes me love you even more.

 

 

my great-grandmother and her mother-in-law, Vale de Lobos, Portugalfound in a bunch of old photos that my great-grandfather took in the 40s/50s

my great-grandmother and her mother-in-law, Vale de Lobos, Portugal
found in a bunch of old photos that my great-grandfather took in the 40s/50s

8th, January, 2013

I’m leaving you but I don’t know when. I beg for you to forgive me when it finally happens and to let me through your door when I knock at 4 a.m., covered in tears and rain and the dirt I fell in.
I promise to leave a note, as words continue to be what enchants me the most. I’ll leave a long letter, explaining everything. I’ll even include some perfume, a pretty distraction from the
ugliness of my actions.
I’ll make sure to turn myself into a maze. I’ll make holes and gashes so I never forget you. I’ll draw the map back to your house on my skin so I never get lost.
Roads get confusing at dawn.