I’m not a cabra macho, but I’ve gotten drunk on cachaça, I’ve played around with big knives, and I’ve wished for the death of people I’ve never met.
I’ve hit someone in the dark and left a mark, backed into a car and robbed sandwiches.
I’ve pissed on your couch while you were out and vomited and checked out your wife, she’s alright.
I’ve lied to them all with a grin about stupid shit that didn’t mean anything like why I didn’t go yesterday, I didn’t care to be there, I’m too lazy.
I convinced myself I should be loved, held a grudge, sunk deeper into a hole with a grin that’s been the death of me.
I kept listening as the pain of the game exacerbated in me, my ear didn’t mean the same thing to her, just a sweet guy she knew.
I’ve kept my mouth shut, as the dream melted away in a drain, and my name slipped from great expectations to disappointments.
I’ve held a grudge, convinced myself I should be adored, while bored, coveted success that wasn’t mine, withheld likes on the internet.
I’ve known I was better than the ass that sits on my face and squished my head and left no space for my place in the world, yet kept silent while it taunted those around me.
I’ve watched pain walk by and cry, closed off and mumbled that’s the way life has to be so that we can be free to fall farther than before.
I’ve denied curses and tattoos, and the fact that the shit you say is monstrous, just left clues, dampened anger into a little ball, bounced it off the wall, like a silly game waiting for the rain to stop.
I’ve wished death on strangers, worshipped ideas that wouldn’t fit on anyone, justified passivity, just to prove my fear was bigger and badder than the writing on the wall.
I’m not a cabra macho, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fucking saint, alright?
I’ve been quiet too long.