Libertad

Siempre fuiste libre de dejarme 

y largarte sin importar 

lo que estabas perdiendo. 

Pero también eras 

libre de quedarte 

y seguir luchando 

por mí cada día, 

por nosotros.

Eras libre de besarme 

hasta hincharme los labios. 

Pero también eras libre 

de besar otras bocas 

y no regresar nunca más. 

Eras libre de conocer 

cada uno de mis defectos

y llegar a enamorarte de ellos. 

Pero también eras libre 

de buscar ser feliz en algún 

otro lugar lejos de mis errores. 

Eras libre de acomodarme 

un mechón de cabello 

mientras yo te cantaba 

en algún bar.

Pero también eras libre 

de irte tomado de la mano

de la primera persona 

que te hiciera segunda.

Eras libre de sentarte 

a escuchar cada una 

de mis anécdotas. 

Pero también eras 

libre de ignorarlas 

al no soportar que hubiera 

una historia antes de ti.

Eras libre de escribirme a 

cualquier hora, 

de buscar 

cualquier pretexto 

y preguntarme 

cualquier cosa. 

Pero también eras 

libre de mandarles 

te extraños, 

te quieros 

y te deseos 

a otras personas. 

Eras libre de contarme 

lo que no te dejaba dormir 

durante la noche 

o quedarte conmigo 

sin dormir toda la noche. 

Pero también eras libre 

de aislarte, 

de callarte 

y guardarte 

todo eso que sentías.

Eras libre de borrarme 

de la faz de la tierra, 

de seguir con tu vida 

como si yo no existiera

y olvidarte de mí. 

Después de todo, 

siempre fuiste libre 

de hacer lo que se te 

diera la regalada gana. 

La gente suele creer que 

la libertad es poder irse. 

Pero permanecer 

también es una elección. 

Y por supuesto que siempre 

fuiste libre de dejarme. 

Pero también 

eras libre de quedarte,

aunque siguieras pensando 

que sería mucho más fácil 

largarte para siempre 

mientras te levantabas 

por la mañana 

y me dabas un beso 

apresurado y de salida.

Y es que, 

tú siempre creíste 

que la libertad era no estar. 

Y yo sigo creyendo 

que la libertad es elegir 

a qué nos encadenamos.

— m.f. // Libertad

El destino

El destino no es algo escrito, 

es algo que se reconoce, 

que llega un día sin esperarlo. 

Por ejemplo, 

cuando yo te vi 

supe inmediatamente 

que me enamoraría de ti. 

Pero al no ser una ciencia exacta, 

no podía saber 

si tú me querrías también, 

si se daría algo entre nosotros, 

si terminaríamos haciéndonos daño o no. 

Tampoco podía adivinar si tu tacto 

sería suave o áspero, 

cómo sería el sabor de tus labios 

o si después de muchos altibajos 

terminarías cansándote de mí, 

de mi malhumor y 

mis comentarios fuera de lugar

o si yo terminaría renunciando 

a lo adictiva que parecía 

la incertidumbre a tu lado. 

Porque en efecto, 

el destino no está escrito en piedra. 

Es sólo una fuerza que nos junta o separa 

y nos hace chocar contra 

lo que la vida nos tiene preparado. 

¿Qué hubiera pasado si aquél día 

no hubiera volteado yo a tu dirección? 

¿o si algún imprevisto te hubiera impedido 

llegar a ese encuentro que nadie planeó? 

De todos los lugares en los que podía estar, 

estuve en el preciso momento 

para verte suceder frente a mí, 

qué maravilla, 

qué fortuna. 

El destino es caprichoso, 

sí, pero quién no. 

El destino es inevitable, también, 

pero somos nosotros los que decidimos 

adentrarnos a lo que nos tiene preparado 

o simplemente ignorarlo. 

Entre todas esas cosas 

que ya me sé de memoria,

desde que te conocí, 

mi regla número uno es 

siempre aceptar lo inesperado.

— m.f. // El destino

Maybe things aren't black and white

I paid way too much just to have my nails painted light blue.
I started to watch a TV show I know damn well I will never finish
and the song playing has been on repeat for five hours.
My bed is too big to be made by myself.
On Saturday nights he laughs with me 
as we flip the sheets over and over 
to find the corners that fit the mattress the right way.
It makes me tear up when I have to tell him goodbye
because for those few hours I'm with him
I don't think about peeling off my nail polish
or worrying about tomorrow.
There's a bowl of melted ice-cream sitting on my kitchen table
and my curtains were so heavy that they fell off the rod.
Most nights I lay in my bed thinking of nothing.
You make me feel touchable and lovable,
when the truth is my skin burns scars on anyone who tries to love me.
Some nights I wish I would just put on that stupid black skirt,
fall in love with some stranger at a bar,
leave red lips on wine glasses
and never look back.
But I don't want just a one-night stand.
I want someone to take care of me.
I want someone to ask me why that bowl of ice-cream melted,
why this song has been on repeat,
why beautiful eyes love to cry
in the form of
words,
words,
words.

— m.f. // Maybe things aren't black and white,

maybe it's the colors that confuse me

The question

Last night you asked me if I was happy. 

I don't think a question has ever left me feeling so exposed. 

I thought about lying and just telling you yes but I just couldn't make myself say it. 

Then I briefly considered saying no but I felt that conversation was best left for a different night. 

So I settled on sometimes. 

Sometimes I'm happy. 

I didn't really carry on the conversation after that. 

I could have told you that I've been sad for a long time. 

I could have told you that you're one of the only people that takes that sadness away. 

I could have told you a lot of things last night but I didn't. 

We both kept sipping on our drinks, 

pretending to watch whatever was on the TV in front of us. 

The way you looked at me though, 

it was like you knew. 

The way you smiled at me, 

it was as if you were determined to change that. 

— m.f. // The question

About love stories

He tilts his head to my side 
when the thunderstorm 
pounds against their backs 
and Noah kisses Allie, 
and Patrick sings for Kat, 
and Jack dies saving Rose,
and Forrest tells Jenny
he doesn't have to be a smart man
to know what he's felt for her
for all these years.
It doesn't work like this.
As much as we will love each other,
we will not always have the thunderstorms,
the right words,
the perfect moments,
the magic
and the bravery.
It never looks like it does
in the movies,
but when he holds me all night long,
when he teaches me how to dance
and tells me how beautiful I am.
When I cook for him,
when I can't help but staring at him
and feel the luckiest person alive.
When we get drunk with wine,
when we sing in his car
and can't stop laughing.
When we look at each other
without saying anything,
but feeling everything
we love
more real
than anyone else.

— m.f. // About love stories

Instantes

A veces te tomo de la mano
con demasiada fuerza mientras manejas,
te volteo a ver a media película
o te lleno la cara de besos.
A veces te digo "te amo" tantas veces
que no sabes cuántos "yo también" contestar,
sonrío como tonta cuando me tocas
o te abrazo de la nada.
Sé que te encanta cuando hago todo eso.
Y que te da risa y ternura
lo espontánea que puedo llegar a ser.
Pero todo esto tiene una razón,
porque la vida es así:
espontánea,
repentina,
inesperada.
Últimamente me he puesto a pensar
que la realidad en la que vivo
puede cambiar en cualquier momento.
Que todo lo que tengo
y lo que quiero
se puede derrumbar en un instante.
Y me da miedo pensar
que eso te podría incluir a ti.
Hoy te tengo,
hoy tengo la posibilidad de besarte,
de abrazarte,
de tomar tu mano
y de decirte cuánto te amo.
Así que te voy a besar
hasta que ya no sienta mis labios,
te voy a abrazar hasta que quieras
hacer de mis brazos tu hogar,
voy a tomar tu mano hasta que me convierta
en una pieza más de tu rompecabezas,
y te voy a repetir lo mucho que te amo
hasta que se acerque un poco
a lo que en realidad siento,
hasta que te lo aprendas de memoria
y si en algún momento no estoy ahí para decírtelo,
puedas repetirlo en tu cabeza
una,
y otra,
y otra vez.
Te voy a decir todo,
absolutamente todo.
Porque tengo tantos sentimientos
que se niegan a ser silenciados,
tantos que siento que mi corazón va a explotar.

Así que ahora voy a besar tu nariz
y a respirar tu aire.
Y te voy a pedir que te quedes un ratito más,
y luego un poquitito más.

— m.f. // Instantes

I found it

Love is worth the wait. Love is worth every single heartache you go through. Love is deserving of all the parts of me that I have to give. Love is everything that makes us whole. Love is surely worth the wait.

To find a man, not a boy, but a man who sees more than just my skin and into my soul is a blessing. I spend countless hours trying to figure out if it's a delusion. Sometimes it seems too good to be true. Our love is the kind of love that I don't even have to think about. I never have to convince myself to love any certain part of you because it all comes naturally. Our love is passionate, is real, is forgiving, is romantic, and is warmth. It's the light I have been waiting for. Our love is the one I read about in books and watched in movies. It's the kind of love people envy and the story I believed to only exist in my head after being let down too many times. It's what makes me so weak in the knees, yet, I feel more fearless and reckless than ever. Our love is what gives me hope and shows me how full a heart can be when it's treated properly. It's the closest thing to flying and magic. It's a safe haven on our darkest nights. Our love is the kind of love that lets me feel, feel so much that I can't help but be myself. 

When I look at you, I see everything I've ever wanted. You're perfect for me. You're kind and thoughtful. You're the one I look foreword talking to. And the one I think about at 3 am and the one I wish was here at 5 in the afternoon. You make me laugh until I can't breath anymore. You tell me that I'm beautiful in any hour of the day and you mean it every time. You make me smile like an idiot when I'm around you. You make me feel happy, safe and wanted. And those are things I haven't felt in a long time. You see me as an equal, a universe in my own right, a person with thoughts and dreams and fears. And you're handsome. Oh god you're handsome. I've seen your morning hair and I still think you're the most breath-taking human even when you wake up. I could kill whoever made you feel otherwise. Because when I look at you, all I can think is how lucky I am. You're the one I want to love, in every form and in every way. You're the one. You're the only one.

Science may never be able to prove if true love exists or if love at first sight is a real thing. And I can't quite tell you if I believe in soulmates, but I believe in our love. I believe in the moments you wake up and lean over to say "good morning". And when you give me most of the blanket. I believe in your laughter and how your eyes light up when you tell me you love me. And when you hold my hand when you drive. I believe in your forehead kisses and the way you listen to my stories with an open heart and an open mind. And how you make my soul laugh and my heart glisten. I believe in the way you make me want to be better. And in your ability to mend, to let go, to move forward, and strive to be more. I believe in your walk, in your talk and the enchantment in your soul. And in the times we sit there in silence, yet, conversations are constantly flowing. I believe you when you tell me you'll always make me happy. And in the safety of your arms and the serenity of your voice. I believe in our strength. I believe in you. I believe in us.

Love is rolling over and finding my way to your body. Love is kissing your forehead as you lay your head on my chest. Love is finding your hand in mine like an uncontrollable attraction. Love is missing you even when you pull your hand away to put it on the steering wheel. Love is feeling your heart beating faster when I get close to you. Love is seeing your whole world and being drawn to it. Love is wanting to paint maps with you and helping you find different ways back to yourself. Love is loving again, even when we have both been hurt. But we love harder than we ever did.

I believe in waiting for the one who makes you feel as if you need an additional heart to hold all the love you have for them. I believe that real love is worth the wait, for this is what I've been waiting for.

— m.f. // I found it

You never said goodbye

I'm filled with words 

I wish I would have said, 

things I wish I didn't do 

and letters that I never sent. 

I'm filled with the love I never gave, 

the heart that never mended 

and a lot of poetry I wish I could share. 

But instead, 

they're stuck between the pages of old notebooks 

and hidden on password locked documents on my laptop.

Every day the sun rises and the sun sets.

And with each passing moment, 

I still hold onto all of these things dearly, 

unable to let them go.

Although sometimes I wish 

they would slip between my fingers 

and find home in the people 

I wish would harbor them. 

I've spent so long 

telling myself all the things 

you should have said, 

but never did.

You never even said goodbye. 

But I try to convince myself 

that you're saying goodbye 

every time you walk past me 

without saying hello. 

You're saying goodbye 

when you're laughing 

in a new picture 

with someone else. 

You're saying goodbye 

when you sing new songs 

that I will never hear the lyrics to. 

You're saying goodbye 

when you drink too much 

and kiss girls whose names 

you will never remember. 

You're saying goodbye 

without saying anything. 

And each goodbye hits me 

harder than the previous one.

Who said that it gets easier? 

Because it sure as hell feels like 

it's only getting harder. 

These are the goodbyes 

you never said, 

but I will tell myself 

that you are screaming 

your goodbyes 

every time.

— m.f. // You never said goodbye

How to walk away

When he says 

he doesn't love you anymore, 

roll your shoulders back 

and look him in the eye. 

Even when it feels like 

your ribs are breaking inward. 

When he digs up old aches 

that he swore he forgave you for, 

smile and ask him 

why he didn't leave you sooner. 

Ignore the way the words 

feel like sandpaper running 

all the way up your throat 

to your mouth. 

When he blames you for mistakes 

that wear his face, 

don't scream. 

When he judges you 

by your past, 

don't cry. 

Tell him there are people 

who would be proud to say 

they'd love you. 

Tell him that in two years 

you won't even remember his name. 

And don't let him see 

the way you can taste your own lie. 

When he leaves, 

ignore the heat in your blood 

and don't get up after him. 

Not even to lock the door. 

And when you leave, 

keep putting one foot 

in front of the other. 

Walk away without looking back. 

Don't smell his shirts 

when you box them up 

to give them back. 

Not one.

Swear off dating when you realize 

you're just chasing ghosts 

that wear his smile. 

It's okay to cry over him. 

It's okay to miss him.

It's even okay to forgive him. 

But don't go back to him. 

Even when it’s 2 am 

and your eyes are rimmed red 

from tears and your heart 

is pounding against your rib cage, 

desperate for a little affection. 

Don't pick up your phone 

and text him a message. 

Don't turn around 

when he's calling your name. 

Not when he's begging for you 

to just give him a brief look. 

If he didn't know how to 

love you the first time, 

he won't know how to 

do it the next.

— m.f. // How to walk away 

and pretend it doesn't hurt

No te acostumbres a mí

- ¿Te puedo pedir algo?

- Sí, lo que quieras.

- No te acostumbres a mí.

- ¿Cómo? No entiendo qué quieres decir.

- Que no te acostumbres a mí, ni a mi sonrisa, ni a mis ojos, ni al largo de mis pestañas. No te acostumbres a mi perfil, ni a mis labios, ni a mis lunares, ni a mi tatuaje. No te acostumbres a mi olor, ni a mi voz, ni a mi respiración, ni a mi risa escandalosa. No te acostumbres a mis besos, ni a mis abrazos, ni a mis masajes, ni a mis caricias. No te acostumbres a mi intensidad, ni a mis berrinches, ni a mis celos. No te acostumbres a que te escuche con atención cuando me cuentas tus cosas, ni a tener que repetírmelas dos o tres veces porque a veces la distracción me gana. No te acostumbres a mis gustos raros, ni a que siempre llegue con una canción nueva. No te acostumbres a la forma en la que te miro o te dejo de mirar, ni a la forma en la que evado tu mirada cuando me haces enojar. No te acostumbres a que te llene la cara de besos, ni a que te tome de la mano mientras manejas. No te acostumbres a mis incoherencias, ni a mi sensibilidad, ni a mis cambios de humor. No te acostumbres a mi cabello despeinado, ni a mi rostro pensativo. No te acostumbres a mis preguntas existenciales, ni a mis momentos de reflexión. No te acostumbres a la conexión que tenemos, ni a molestarme, ni a que te moleste. No te acostumbras a mis silencios, ni a las veces en las que no puedo dejar de hablar. No te acostumbres al brillo de mis ojos cuando me dices que me quieres, ni a la sonrisa con la que siempre te recibo. No te acostumbres a mi sentido del humor, ni a reírte de todas las cosas que digo. No te acostumbres a verme a media película, ni a cantar junto a mí en el coche. No te acostumbres a mi pésima entonación de voz, ni a mis chistes malos, ni a mis comentarios ocurrentes. No te acostumbres a mis antojos, ni a la forma en la que bailo como niña chiquita cuando estoy de buenas. No te acostumbres a que encuentre tu mano en la oscuridad, ni a que me acurruque en tu pecho. No te acostumbres a mis consejos, ni a mis opiniones, ni a mis regaños. No te acostumbres a mis detalles, ni a mis atenciones, ni a mis palabras. No te acostumbres a mí.

- ¿Y todo esto a qué viene? ¿Por qué lo dices?

- Por nada en especial, es sólo que algún día me voy a cansar de aguantarlo todo y me voy a ir. Y vas a extrañar todas esas cosas a las que estás tan acostumbrado y que no valoras.

— m.f. // Fragmento de un libro que tal vez escriba #11 

// No te acostumbres a mí

Gurf'a

I don't think we need to know someone loves us.
I think we need to know they love us enough.
Enough to stay when it gets tough.
Enough to sit with us in the dark, 
at the doctor's office, 
in bed at night when air in our lungs feels like fire 
and breathing is the world's most difficult challenge.
Enough to watch us sleep, 
and eat, 
and dance 
and just exist. 
Because our very existence is a form of magic 
and they want to see our being unfold, 
a painting painting itself, 
even when the artist is not present.
Enough to listen to the stories we've already told 
and laugh at the same jokes.
Enough to tell us they love us, 
over and over again, 
because words don't become worn out 
if you speak them right.
Enough to hold our hand when it's sweaty 
and accept the not-pretty 
because they see so much fucking beauty surrounding it.
Enough to not hurt us, 
to choose us some days 
and other days to pretend they have, 
pretend well 
and lie well. 
Because sometimes dishonesty 
is the greatest kindness you can give to a human being.
Enough,
enough for us to feel safe and loved.
And the thing is,
enough is different for everyone.
For some people it takes an ocean, 
vastness to be immersed into.
For others it takes a river, 
direction 
and current 
and a sense of being taken away.
And for a few, 
a few hiding in plain sight, 
it takes rain.
Some days we need a drizzle.
Others a shower that soaks the ground.
And sometimes we need drought 
to become again desert, 
sand, 
sun 
and scorched ground. 
To go back to the earth we came from. 
To breathe in air that feels like fire 
and exhale flames.

— m.f. // Gurf'a (the amount of water 

that can be held in one hand)

Questions about us

Did you find everything 

you're looking for? 

The butterflies?

The passion?

The roads that you 

have never walked on?

Did you find the person 

you're looking for? 

Did you find the one 

who fills the hole?

The space you 

wanted to fill?

The soul that connects yours 

with the universe?

Did you find all of that, in me?

Am I the one for you?

Are you the one for me?

Are we meant to be with each other? 

Sometimes, it's black and white 

and I know the answer.

It's a hard yes. 

Other times, I question it. 

I think about the way we argue.

How when it's good, 

it's really good.

But when it's bad, 

I almost believe we're better off 

searching for love 

somewhere else.

Is this what love feels like? 

Is it never 100%?

There's always going to be a void?

No matter how much 

time passes?

No matter how much 

we love each other? 

Sometimes I think 

I know exactly what love is.

But other times, 

I'm constantly learning 

about the ebb and flow. 

I believe it's going to be forever, 

then question if forever even exists.

Sometimes I'm hurting, 

but it's not enough for me to leave. 

Sometimes I love you so much, 

it hurts to even think 

about a life without you. 

Are we over compromising 

parts of ourselves?

Are we sacrificing too much?

Is it even worth it? 

Or is that my fear talking? 

Am I afraid of being alone 

or being without you?

I think life's too short 

to constantly put ourselves 

through painful situations, 

asking questions without 

wanting to hear 

the answers.

If we walk away, 

it'll hurt for a moment.

But we'll be happier 

in the long term. 

If we stay, we'll be happy 

and then hurt. 

And it'll be a continuous cycle, 

until we finally learn that 

we should've walked away 

in the first place.

I know we love each other. 

But maybe love isn't enough 

for forever to work out. 

Maybe love doesn't 

cover trust 

and build foundations. 

Maybe instead 

of choosing each other 

and choosing "us", 

we have to choose 

ourselves.

— m.f. // Questions about us

Algo diferente

Oye tú, 

¿cómo le has hecho para que 

mi corazón tenga tantas ganas 

de querer de nuevo?

Me sientes temblar

y tu respiración me da calor en el cuello.

Tus labios besan mi frente,

mis manos parecen adictas a tu cabello.

Estoy junto a ti, 

temerosa.

Tú estás tan cerca,

tan irreal.

Rompo el hielo de la distancia 

con un beso y tú el temor 

con caricias en mi cuerpo.

"No te vayas, hace frío",

"aunque ya sea tarde, 

quédate conmigo".

Tú me miras, 

yo sonrío.

Y el dolor se 

vuelve pequeñito.

Somos todo 

en este momento.

No pienso en nada, 

sólo en tu tiempo.

Te quiero mío, 

me quieres tuya.

Y la vida, 

por primera vez, 

parece justa.

Había olvidado lo que era 

ponerme nerviosa al leer una 

conversación desde mi celular, 

esperar con ansias que 

llegue alguien a un lugar, 

entristecerme si me dicen 

que no vendrá.

Creo que es más fácil 

recordar lo que al corazón 

le puede pasar 

cuando le tiemblan las piernas, 

cuando siente miedo de nuevo, 

cuando se comienza a preocupar.

Pero bueno, 

no quiero volver a la 

posición de no atreverme a querer 

por miedo a fracasar. 

Pero es imposible 

no sentirme un poco tonta 

al esperar algo de ti.

No sé qué vaya a pasar. 

Tal vez ni si quiera surge nada. 

Tal vez surge todo. 

Lo único que sé es que 

no quiero quedarme con la duda 

de lo que pudo ser.

Tal vez no existe tal cosa 

como el destino. 

Tal vez son simplemente 

las oportunidades que se nos dan 

y lo que hacemos con ellas. 

Estoy empezando a pensar que quizás 

los grandes y épicos romances 

no ocurren por casualidad. 

Tenemos que hacerlos 

nosotros mismos.

— m.f. // Algo diferente