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