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las cuchillas sentadas en el corazón el nudo de soga en la garganta las balas estallando en los pulmones en cada aliento me dijeron que no hable tanto de libros que con la ropa que no puedo comprar llegará el amor que soy más bonita sin mis rizos— que el lacio que no es mío es más atractivo que si no soy yo, hasta me puedo casar entonces, con más gusto hablaré de lo que me gusta leer del genio brillante de Tolkien la belleza de Middle Earth cuando el mundo era joven y Telperion y Laurelin acompañaban las estrellas; con más gusto hablaré del sarcasmo elegante de Austen los sonetos hermosos de Elizabeth Browning y también contaré cómo suspiro por Bécquer y por qué las cartas de Fabro me hacen llorar entonces, aprenderé poquito a poquito a quererme a dejar de anhelar la llamada que nunca llegó a que duelan menos el silencio y las mentiras; poquito a poquito voy viendo que no sirve de nada odiar el espejo aunque mis rizos hoy dia no tengan remedio y carezca aún de

Sometimes it's just a reflex like muscle memory an ingrained habit, but I shake my head as one shakes the rustled brittle shackles of a bad dream I welcome daylight, sobriety after a fool’s long hope. It’s not you I want to call after a heart-pounding 5.6 earthquake some fault lines moving in my soul It was not you I loved just some dream the idea of something good that was not you that was not true, that left me broken and reeling shattered, clichéd, and healing. It’s sometimes a force of habit this muscle memory a fool’s long dream of hope.

tornados and torrents and ill-fated loves stories that never were just ideas and drafts in my head wishes with hours of days and homemade flavors and the first leaf of autumn. I'm letting you go by listening to the truth of your actions the things that did not happen did not happen for proverbial reasons and seasons, and yet— and yet... I'd like nothing more than to spend this storm with you dry my hair with a towel at your house after being drenched in the rain some joyful minutes, I would have loved to light my favorite candle —crisp apple and warm cloves— in the absence of other lights and talk freely and openly, of regrets and goals places to visit in Europe your new job my old fears and old homes But it can't be done. It can't be done. your dinner plans are not with me, did you just want my forgiveness like a blessing for your next conquest? you said you'd call, you said we'd drink wine by the trees with the stars of their leaves. did I mean so little? you

I think about you more than I should more than it's good. I go down into hopeful spirals that are not you that are not true. We'll stay on the shore we'll stay on the surface, there might have been gold there might have been corals But I'm not the one who's built canyons between us

I want to believe that beautiful things can happen in May, not just these goodbyes the abundance of severances and tears that don’t sprout daffodils in the constant gray of the city I want to believe that May is more than relieving losses, than getting used to the absence of limbs and space; more than reviewing your words sighing for your time, in short: more than missing you and a certain life I want to believe there will be joy contentment in May, that you will mean to me as little and as nothing as I meant to you: I long for indifference I want to believe my heart will find an evening smile and undisturbed morning dreams

I wish we could solve this: start anew like the sky the early birds enjoy like a breath of hope with our weapons down with the fearlessness of Love that sees not monsters but humans, flawed and glorious with thorns and lights scorns and compliments like a black-hearted poppy that wants to be seen for its beauty I wish we could see each other anew and yet enjoy the smile of recognition some sort of mirror image in an upside down pool in a universe not unlike ours. I want to know you: scars and courage befriend your passions stare your demons wide-eyed in the face give you room to rest the mask. I want you to see my strength that's endured loss and longing a me who's terrified—not of darkness—but of silence, a soul that's homesick for friendship a heart that honors stories the meaning of laughter the sacredness of a moment, who might still be a little lost between miles and zipcodes and is still at times caught up in a rocky relanding. I wish we could see each other

Grief is a lot like tiredness It deflates you It wears you down Grief is a lot like slow breaths The ones that hide a trepidation Grief pursues your words Hunts down the spark in your eyes It suffocates the corners of your mouth that turn upward when you smile Grief is a lot like an earthquake Time at full speed; the world in slow motion And life that is still Grief is a lot like tiredness the quiet suddent movement of death— I wish you are granted peace

Me causa una punzada Que se queda Que se estira entre latidos que hacen falta Entre respiros que quedaron rezagados: un instante condensado de un millón de años Y me acuerda la esperanza Que un día tuve de confiar; Entre manos temblorosas el recuerdo ahora me aturde: Y confieso que te quise Que extrañarte no es un arte Pero sí perderte bien. Me falta aún destreza al olvidarte Y cuánto quisiera Cuánto quisiera que tú fueras Quien yo creí querer Porque hubo tanto Tanto que quise contarte Tanto que quise saber Tomar contigo ese café Estacionando nuestros miedos A la luna del parqueo aquel En una noche solitaria Y de belleza vulnerable De palabras honestas y voces libres Ganas no me faltan de llorar Quería quedarme Quería excavar… Pero el espacio entre segundos Está cada vez más vacío de tus promesas Me despego la mano del pecho Extraño tanto a la versión de ti que a veces se asoma Y me recuerda que los fantasmas existen