Orange juice and vodka (or the constant storm inside me)

Orange juice and vodka_P2.png
imagem: Cassiano Rodka

 

por Clarice Casado

To my mind, the queen of it all.
And to Sylvia Plath, who taught me how to be confessional.

It’s on me
for a long time
but nobody knows it or
can’t figure it out.
I acknowledge it for sure,
though.
Dirty words?
Pardon my French, little girl.
Filthy hands, heart, soul, mind? Always knew it –
I wanted to fly
Far far away
I’ve got the wings,
plenty of desire,
But couldn’t get the courage
or the power.
Now, don’t want it anymore:
I’ve mastered you, finally.
I’m comfy and calm.
Not numb anymore.
Make a wish:
Twinkle, twinkle,
Starman.
You’ve abandoned me in the middle of the war –
No rescue.
I lie here,
Dead, stiff and cold
(But my bloody Purple Heart still beating, sweating, swearing)
And I can completely absolve
your absences.
Do you hear me?
Your Majesty,
embrace me.
It’s now or never?
Forever.
Hate ultimatums.
You’re alive as well.
(Seemed dead, but you’re back).
Love refreshing news,
Pieces of winter,
No man’s land.
Rephrase it.
Decipher me:
I got you,
You no longer control me,
But you think you still do.
I can hear the birds, and the sea,
and the ice in my glass melting.
And I feel sleepy and devastated
like any other mom.
Allow me the benefit of the peace
(of mind).
You fool.

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