Adanari Alatorre - Bundles

Bundles I don't want to be forgotten the way that I forget.

Fruitful

Replace Memory

Remembering god

The Bakery

Tattoos

I Thought About You, Today

Green Thumb

Misty

Materializing

Seeing and Knowing

Fruitful

Anger brings me to tears, I pray one day this anger won't rot a plate of fruit that a deep breath is smooth not trembling with rage This rage has become so viral and contagious it's better to stay locked away that way your plates stay fruitful and your breath equal That way your tears aren't so salty once my anger blooms i wish, i pray for tears of sadness that one day this anger will bloom into something useful

Replace Memory

I replace memory with delusion because it’s easy for me to lie to everyone including myself.

I’ve betrayed myself more than I've been betrayed by others, and I revisit that thought often as it resembles my dad.

Because in this delusional world i’ve created made out of rusty budweiser cans every color meshes together to form the clothes on my back I wear black and only black, navy blue on occasion, red if i need color.

Wearing something my dad could really be proud of, what really catches his eye There’s still moments where I'm everything he wants me to be, all in the body of someone so lacking.

What do I lack?

What more can I know?

How much more do you have to sacrifice?

I think as my food looks up at me.

My dad made pasta, a historic dish.

He claims it is my favorite food in the world. He says I could eat it for days and he cooks enough to fulfill that statement. I'll never tell him he's right because then that means I can't replace this memory of pasta with anything else.

I know he thinks about me because my voice haunts him. Haunts his mind and motivation.

If I could go back and be everything he envisioned I would do it to prove I can be so much bigger I can be a fraction of him. Manifested into someone so much better, someone to be proud of.

Instead I sit across from my dad, a stranger. Someone who carries small talk the same words on constant loop, the same stories, the same lies, the same always chasing flies in the yard, chasing them in circles until all I can do is catch my breath on the pavement and ignore the cravings, the cold cravings that make me my fathers daughter undoubtedly.

Remembering god

I have 20/20 vision I’ve always thought I deserve a couple extra credit points though They’re necessary for the details I pick up Because I'm also busy thinking of what details were actually necessary The ones that keep me threaded to a scarily crooked needle not for the purpose of crooked threading not useful in that matter either but just crooked and sharp, the anti weaving needle that keeps my memories in constant limbo suspended across my frontal lobe like a circus of mice I wish to be entertained by except they keep falling off the tightrope and getting swallowed by the safety net below that’s waiting for failure.

If I were swallowed by the safety net do you think I could find all the details that matter or maybe even the bigger picture?

If I had the bigger picture it would be hung above an entrance in my home like a house of god.

I would make my own house of god If god was memories I would remember I would have faith in the state of remembrance.

But I keep losing sight of why I'm here, I keep forgetting.

The Bakery

The bakery is the place where I can call you secret names, where bad words turn into unrecognizable adjectives I've never conjured out loud. Today, I conjured those words in achy sweets. The impulse to make something for you is alive the same way I feel for you. Reminding me of life makes me want to sustain that feeling through every medium I can attain. My ability to love you is not impressive, just deserved and thoughtful .I conjure food to fill you with warmth. The closest I can get to your heart and soul is through the secret spices scribbled in this special book, the same spices coating your tongue with my legacy. Can you taste it?

Tattoos

It takes me half an hour to follow the shadowy traces all over my skin, like a blooming tree I cant recognize fruit or flower.

In natural light a dress is revealed, still shadows.

Where?

Everywhere?

You can see everything everywhere. all the shadows stuck to my body.

I'm tracing myself onto paper, my friend holds my body sees everything everywhere my spine reverberates like a slinky, the columns bump into each other, one after the other shaking me, the paper. now im black and red, ink and blood.

I Thought About You, Today

I've had compelling thoughts about my skin and yours. I've had compelling thoughts about you and I want to tell you why they are so compelling but I want to go back.

I want to keep the feeling of being compelled to you. What makes the water so compelling, how many layers, levels, and heights I approach the water first, walk and smile later going silent I'm in an altered state a mix of myself and the compelling waves on your face, drowning.

Green Thumb

If I've ever had a well rounded thought it's always been alone.

Never alone, I repeat because that's my well rounded thought.

I repeat thoughts in a cycle like a prayer in bad times because like bad times lies are inevitable. How solid a lie is, how concrete the words are. You can see the walls being built and the cage closes.

Freedom one day when the cage becomes too small, when you no longer fit within this cage, one that loves you.

I, specifically and especially made for you, turned into a garden of love with bright beautiful plastic roses. You say you smell the reality of these petals. The stench of bait rises from the crevices of plastic fabric. Right before your eyes I drop the match, lighting the garden on fire. The smell of reality is so acrid. I mirror your shock and pain until I can't recreate your burns and screams. Until I can't recreate the tears and movements, until you can't see me translate what I see to you. Maybe you've learned and maybe now when I scatter your ashes they'll tell me the truth.

Misty

There's still traces of your mist on my skin, so predictable to see you so close.

Mist does what touch cannot do. Mist knows me and nourishes my body Misting my body from a distance would secure touch But maybe my body needs distance The nurturing touch of my hands and layers of sweet oils, butters, and mist. What's left are traces everywhere like paint. One day you'll turn the lights off and look at the paint strokes of product piled on my skin Filled with hunger, eating until you're full. grabbing and touching to end your emptiness. later the spices I sprinkled on top of my skin will entrance you, sickly.

One day I'll master the recipe so you don't keep dying.

Maybe my body needs distance Mist is enough for me.

Materializing

Everybody wants the truth until.

Until you're empathetic for my pain, then I think I'll kill you so you see the pain manifested, so bad it'll hurt you Instead of me.

I said it out aloud to see how it feels. I weighed all the options I layed out all the words on the table to sort and all I'm left with is words about myself. The words I hate the most If I knew what I loved about myself I would tell everyone and I would love even harder than I already do, I would walk with naivety. My love would be too much for you all.

So I'll tell you lies, the ones that don't flash gold in your eyes, my advantage points, I know better so I lie.

Don't let these eyes fool you because they'll never look away first you see the truth, what I see, and now you're crying.

One with my senses sorting pain forever. That's what you do, sort through my pain with piercing intimacy.

I'll never tell the truth again, now I'm all splayed out, dissected and my heart, soul and skin lay beside me. If I could see myself now. I would say I should have known better. I would reassemble my body and kill you.

Seeing and Knowing

Knowing isn't enough for me to know isn't enough, so I have to see.

I knew my dad was gutting a goat but I couldn't see.

Maybe I have to see those horrors to realize that knowing is enough.

Because exposure isn't rare, it's intrusive and violent. “don't look” take the words as enough, the words can deteriorate unlike the image that will cross your mind in hundreds of variations.

“Don't look” “Close your eyes” “You don't want to see” In between days of peace when my home feels like a graveyard, each step has haunting echoes, the floors aren't reflective, but I can see myself in the reflection of a bowl. Food is hot, painting the air with strokes of steam, my wish for an image answered. Cactus, slimy and green.

The taste I know is good, but I see it, so my sister says “Close your eyes” Closed caskets aren't for narcissistic families. That sounds harsh but a closed casket doesn't carry as much resentment, blessings, and sincerities as an open one.

“You don't want to see” I'm told so I walk over and feel my side ache. I feel weighed down by the emotions tugging my vocal cords like rope I can feel the climb words want to spill out but I'm scared of worms and dirt so I cry in front of an open casket spilling my sincerities onto a man I never knew Then I know that knowing is enough.