“Everything is fused, and sometimes confused, and implicates us. The true act of writing with the body implies being fully involved. I am my own bet; I play myself, as though lying on the roulette table, calling out “All or nothing!”
- Valenzuela, 136
What the fuck just happened to me?
No, seriously! Karen, explain this to me?
It use to be all or nothing, NO easy way out
Somehow, somewhere, there was this tragic sudden death.
Found you covered in your own blood, the other day
Told me you’d find a way to put yourself back together
How the fuck did you allow him to drain you?
This feeling of emptiness upsets you.
Stop hiding your anger,
Stop pretending as if you feel no pain,
no one buys into your façade,
Take off that mask you once made,
Tell me what happened to the----
Passionate, ecstatic, you, you----use to give me such an immense energy.
The blood flood through my veins doesn’t feel the same.
Who the fuck are you for taking that away!
Now I look at your face and I can’t help but want to turn away.
Use to look you in the eye,
Fearless then, angry,
More readily to just say fuck you and walk away,
But something happened, and I grew silent,
hid my writing
Until eventually I just put the pen down and away.
It use to me a make believe kind of game,
But now it feels like this mask has become my face
And I wish I could just make it go,
Detach it, PULL IT OFF with all my might
I never should have gotten so close
Played all my cards, left empty handed for gambling away my identity,
For your love
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