I wish

I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.

It’s midnight. Cold is creeping through my window as I sit on an old, forgotten stool in a corner of an empty room. And I wish. I wish for many things lately, but it is all in vain.

I’m trying to handle a lot of things, and I want to tell you everything. I want to tell you about the fantasies I have about you and me and the memories I constantly recall trying to keep myself together on car rides. When I’m alone, but not alone enough. There are people around me, but they are not with me. And I guess I’d rather be just alone all the time now. It’s not that I don’t love you anymore, believe me… I do. It’s just that it takes too much energy, and you have so little patience. I just take it in.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.

See? It’s not that hard. But it is.

And I don’t tell you about anything because it’s just too much work. It used to be easy. You were my first choice when I wanted to talk to people, but now I go to Blah Therapy to talk to strangers who don’t really care. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that trusting you has taken a toll on my heart. I feel sick even saying it.

I feel sick all the time. I feel nauseated by life. (I’m listening to the 1-800-something song by Logic that I told you to hear. It makes me feel nice and warm inside when I’m sad. That’s the most I do when I’m feeling like I’m feeling now. It feels like a hot cup of chocolate on a snowy winter.)

I don’t tell you about the little things because then you’ll want to talk about it. You aren’t mindless like Pinterest posts, mind-numbing like watching Netflix, distracting like reading the Harry Potter books or hopeful like Tumblr. But there it is. I didn’t even tell you about that. I created a Tumblr to make myself more known as a writer. It’s secret, of course. It has to be. But you would say congratulations, and then be smart about it. That’s just it. You’re smart. You’re a problem solver. You’re a planner. I’m not. I want mindless, mind-numbing, distracting and hopeful conversations. I want to imagine and not worry.

But it’s time to worry. It’s time to plan. It’s time to problem-solve. It’s time to be smart. And you embody everything that I’ve been avoiding for many years. You are what I want to become but am scared of becoming.

I guess what I want to say is… “I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it”.


Teenage years

There are a thousand reasons to be sad tonight.
And it’s not that life has been a constant fight
or that brightness blinds me like a thousand suns
or that I must tend to the burns
that they – yes, they – made so long ago.
And it feels like it by now I ought to now
that A and B don’t mix and match
that he and I not right for that
that perfect is as perfect does
that I make out of perfect nothing such a fuzz
that mess is my fault and I must pick it up.
Pick myself up. Dress, heels, makeup
on point. If only my body were sexy enough,
and my nails grew long and I was a bit more tough.
They wouldn’t get to me.
But this is what has become of me.
Their poison is in my veins, heart, lungs –
and if only I were to speak in tongues.
That would solve everything and clean
the sin that corrupts my image. So pristine
I’m meant to be.
But I’m not.
I am not a flower, baby pink, singing happily.
I have a mind, I speak and I’m unique.
And they shut me down and tell me that
women cannot be fat
that I should not be concerned with basic human rights
that some things don’t need a spotlight
that animals are not people and don’t feel.
that I should be quiet, skip my meals
and be skinny, be pretty, be so freaking cute.
Tongues and songs and white picture-perfect scenes
are nothing more than a mask to cover up my teenage years.

Cinderella: Ten Years Later

Ella walked through the halls of the palace. They were brightly lit by sunshine bouncing off the decorating jewels. She remembered the times when her step-sisters had called her Cinderella. It was over now. A dream come true. And as her beautiful shoes made a resonating sound, she could only dream of going back. Of course, not back to her old life. Those memories had been stored deep inside her, and she barely thought of that now. But she wished to visit the house in which she grew up.

Being queen for ten long years had taken a toll on her body. Her once flawless face now showed a few signs of wrinkles to come. Beauticians came from far away to offer her treatments, solutions for her aging skin, but she could not be bothered by their comments and embraced the marks.

But what truly commemorated the long years of their marriage was their son, James. Prince James had been brought up in extravagant luxury like his father but had learned of work and a simple lifestyle early on from his mother. Many were against the latter teachings, but they had made him a better boy and would surely make him a better king.

Queen Ella knocked softly on the wooden doors at the end of the hall. They were opened by guards to whom she kindly smiled, as was her custom, and they bowed in return.

“Kip, it’s time to go,” she said. “Everyone is waiting for you.”

“Oops. I’m sorry, dear. I just have to sign this last letter and then I’ll be all yours for the weekend.”

“Please, do hurry.” She kissed his forehead and walked off, thinking of what they would do when they arrived. Would she feed the chickens? Perhaps watch the fluttering butterflies! But only time would tell.

The King and Queen arrived almost at the same time and saw Prince James reading a book in the carriage. He had already done away with this fancy clothes and wore simpler versions, still rather lavish, but more comfortable for his adventures in tree-climbing as the king of the forest.

It did not take too long to arrive at Ella’s house. Once they had settled, the couple began to stroll around the gardens. They laughed and took great joy in each other while James took to playing with a very friendly goose.

“Mr. Goose,” he played, “I usually am king of the forest, but I think you are more fitting to wear the crown today. How would you feel about that?” The goose, as if understanding the boy, nodded and followed him. “But I warn you! The crown is at the very top of the tree. You’ll need to fly up there. Are you scared? Would you like me to assist you?”

Just as Ella and Kip were making their way back around to where James was playing, they spotted him carrying a goose to the very top of a tree. He proceeded to place a couple of leaves on its head, and, looking quite smug, the goose let out a loud and proud honk. This made the King and Queen laugh, and James noticed his parents and smiled. They were about to continue their stroll when a loud bang erupted from inside the house. A loud thud came from the tree and Ella ran to her son, who now laid on the ground. The goose had flown next to them. James had nothing but a small scrape on his knee.

Helping her son get up, Ella realized that Kip had gone inside to investigate the loud bang. She held her son’s hand, tight, and called for the guards. They didn’t come. She held his hand firmly and walked in front of him. They entered the house together. Some items had been thrown around.

James let out a surprised gasp as he pointed down to the floor. Blood. Ella began shouting for Kip, but there was no answer. They went out to the entrance to get the guards. They were getting up, having clearly just gotten out of a struggle.

“Queen!” said the one on the right. “The King – we tried to stop them. But there were too many. He has been taken.”

“Who – who was it? Did you see?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“They must not be far.”

“It was a woman who led them, I believe.”

“Step-mother. I had been warned, but I never thought her capable. She was looking for me, I bet. But she will not win. I’ll go after her. I know where she’s keeping the King. James, stay with the guard. And you,” she spoke to the guard on her left, “please be so kind as to take him promptly to the castle. Once you’re there, tell all the chief he must be safe no matter what. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” He walked away holding James’s hand.

“Would you accompany me to find my husband?”

“Surely, my Queen, you will not go yourself.”

“I must, and I will. She is a smart woman and has to be stopped as quickly as possible. We cannot wait for anyone else.”

“Then, I will go with you.”

“Good. What is your name?”


“Well, then, Thomas. Let’s go save my husband.”

Sacred Irony

He walks. Smoke and fire fill the scene. The dirt is blackened by the heat of hate. He runs. Loud explosions acutely resonate in the inside of his ears. Each step becomes mute as sounds and sights leave him completely helpless. He stops. He can’t stop. The camouflage clothes contrast against the battlefield and bullets fly everywhere, looking for a victim on the horizon.

A body is lying nearby, facing the soil beneath it. The golden strands of hair blend effortlessly against the porcelain skin. It reminds him of his love and of the summers at the beach long ago. Before the war. Before death strode around and killed at will. The blood pooling around the missing legs ruined the perfection in which the fallen warrior laid.

He laid next to the body, instantly becoming oblivious to everything around him. With the cries of war and the red liquid now staining his own uniform long forgotten, he pressed his forehead against the corpse’s. Its blue eyes glimmered in the light and its soft hands became warm with his touch.

It was not a corpse. It was a lover, a love scene, a romance unbound by time, Earth or death. He imagined them walking in the soft warm sand, hand in hand, on a summer afternoon. He imagined the birthday parties in which they would get drunk and not remember what had happened, only that it had been the happiest hours of their lives.

Pain distorted the images in his head. A burning sensation sprouted along his arm. A bullet had barely missed him. It was time to go. But, to leave the love of his life lying in the dirt? Like it was nothing? Like the moments they had shared – the years – as if they had not happened?

He pressed his hand against the cold cheek and stared into the oceanic eyes blankly staring back at him. He turned to corpse around so that it would stare at the beautiful floating marshmallows for eternity. But it had cheated. It wore the wrong colors, the wrong rectangle: the wrong flag.

It was a betrayal like no other. Tears poured down his face, rapidly landing on the corpse. It deserved no cloud watching. It deserved none of his love. It had never deserved to be alive. He kicked it.


He walks. Smoke and fire fill the scene. The dirt is blackened by the heat of hate. He runs. He crouches down for safety, bloody corpses lying next to him. He takes out the picture of home, his reason to live. Staring back at him, his wife.


I am bound by chains of sadness. I cannot move, breathe, get up. I can’t reach out for happiness. That undeniable right was denied to me.

And it feels like life is a river rushing with great speed and force. I am trapped in the middle of the river, and I ache to be one of those people who managed to build their own boat. Who had nothing to stop them, nothing they could not bear. But I have chains that tie me to the river floor. I dearly wish that someone would let me hold on to their boat.

Some have. And I am grateful that they did so because it allowed be to put my head over the water. But the inevitable always comes: they see me pulling their boat down, but they never see the chains. They push me off the boat thinking I will float, not remembering when they found me drowning. At least I hope they don’t remember.

I down. And people ask me why I drown. And I can’t tell them about the chains because my mouth is underwater, and they are undeniably blind.


When I close my eyes I see an island.
I am laying wake in my bed in the middle of the night.
My tears glimmer in the dim light.

It’s small. With white, soft sand.
In my dreams I see the stars above my piece of sunshine
And I think – I hope – I dream – I don’t – that everything will be fine.

And I see the water rising up.
It’s a tsunami that washes over my dead soul
Trying to steal something Life already stole.

And I wonder what to do.
Life and Death have come together – and the water is so blue…

I know it’s somewhere.
But I might have left it elsewhere…

It floods my island like drowning sugar in a teacup.
I drink tea in the dark.
Trying to be quiet. Hide the evidence. “Don’t leave a mark!”

I should be scared.
Someone might find me. I hide the clues,
I hope no one realizes I did it. No one sees what I lose.

I should try to build a boat: be prepared.

But I am prepared. I am prepared to swim.

I dream of the ocean grim,

Of floating, forever, and closing my eyes

Wait for a never-coming sunrise.

For Matti

Pocas veces me siento a pensar en alguien, a decirle cuánto los quiero y dedicarles algo. Pocas veces sale bien porque me pongo a pensar de todas las cosas buenas y estas se mezclan con las malas y termino con un gran nudo en mi cabeza. Además, las palabras no salen. Se quedan atoradas. Es como si tuviera rejas en mi garganta que evitan que mi corazón salga. Y quiere salir. Quiero tener voz de Shakespear y enamorarte, mi dulce día de verano, dedicarte más poemas que Petrarca a Laura, verte a los ojos y decirte que te amo como se dicen los enamorados.

Pero no.

Yo estoy enamorada de ti, créemelo. Pero no estoy enamorada de ti porque quisiera que tomaras mi mano todos los días hasta que poco a poco nuestras manos agarren marcas, cicatrices, manchas de sol y arrugas que muestren el paso del tiempo que nosotros ni notaríamos porque no veríamos nuestras manos nunca sino que siempre nos veríamos a los ojos. No, Matthias. No estoy enamorada de ti de esa manera. Pero sí estoy enamorada.

Estoy enamorada de cómo piensas. Y lo que más me intriga de ese cerebrito que tienes es porque no vives en las nubes ni en la tierra ni en medio. Realmente no sé donde vive tu cerebro. Siempre que lo imagino pienso que debe tener una casa de lujo en algún lado cerca de la playa donde no existe preocupación ni apatía sino una calma total en la que puedes ser sumergido en un mar de conceptos, ideas, teorías, teoremas, diagramas, fórmulas y de todo lo que tú quieras y tu cerebro solo bebe esta agua salada. Pero no lo envenena. Lo que causaría la muerte en otros no causa la muerte en ti. Es más, tu cerebro ya se acostumbró tanto a ese sabor salado que no beber del mar creo que simplemente le sería imposible. Eres un pez. O más bien, tu cerebro lo es.

Y si yo fuera una personita pequeña dando un tour adentro de ti, debo decir que la atracción principal no sería tu cerebro. Mínimo no para mí. Tu cerebro es como un cartel que ponen en la entrada de un museo para anunciar que están presentando la Mona Lisa, solo por una semana. Pero tu corazón es por lo que la gente se queda en el museo y nunca lo quiere dejar. Porque, si tú fueras un museo, tu corazón sería una pieza por un autor anónimo que nadie puede dejar de ver. Es hipnotizante. Es de esas imágenes que miras y te sientes allí, juntito al perro, escalando el frío Everest en una gran aventura o simplemente sentado en un parque que existió hace docientos años y al que tu alma desea escapar. Cuando yo miro tu corazón no deseo quedarme sentada en frente. Muchas personas se quedan en esa silla, contemplando. Yo no. Me aburre estar sentada. Me aburre ver pero no entrar. Solo ver es como tener una ventana de vidrio sin  puerta para llegar a lo que estás viendo. No. Yo quiero tocarlo.

Quiero tocarte. Y sé que suena mal, pero solo soy carne, huesos, cerebro y corazón. No tengo acceso a una máquina que me deje explorar tu playa ni que me deje pasearme por los pasillos de tu corazón. Simplemente tengo unas manos que anhelan tu calor. Sentir frío es horrible. No me gusta cuando te pasa a ti. Pero me gusta cuando hay calor. Me gusta verte sudar después de un beso apasionado. Me gusta ver mi reflejo en tu mirada y saber que estás allí, que en ese momento no hay fuerza en este mundo que separe tu corazón del mío. Es mi momento de tocar. Literal y figurativamente. Porque toco tu corazón pero también toco tu cuerpo. Y… wow. Eres increíble. No es que pueda compararte a alguien más, pero a veces me da miedo irme con otra persona y tener que compararla contigo.

Estoy enamorada de ti. Como amiga. Con la palabra “enamorada” me refiero estar en un profundo estado de amor mezclado con admiración y una “pizca” de deseo. No te amo por romance. Eso no es para nosotros. Eso no es malo.

A veces imagino… E imagino… E imagino… y no dejo de pensar en lo inteligente que eres, el hermoso corazón que tienes, y las manos curiosas en mi cintura.  Y sigo imaginando, porque nunca terminaré de conocerte. Y eso es genial, porque siempre habrá más. Solo puedo imaginar  y me muero por saber cuál es mi siguiente parada en el tour.


Súper poder

Tú tienes un súper poder. Pareciera que saliste de las páginas de una historieta y te veo caminar en calles reales, respirando el mismo aire que yo pero viviendo en un mundo tan diferente. Y pareciera que vivo en una caja de cristal y te veo y te envidio. Porque tú puedes volar. A veces quiero arrancarte las alas de la envidia. Quiero coserlas a mi espalda y besarlas. Yo las apreciaría más que tú.

Tú tienes un súper poder. Tus palabras son gotas de ácido que, aunque las oiga, no resuenan en mis oídos sino que se resbalan por mi garganta, quemando todo en su camino hasta llegar a mi corazón. Y ya está tan lleno de tu ácido que se ha vuelto pesado y ahora ha tomado el lugar de todos mis otros órganos. Me consume. Me quema por dentro. Pero tú solo me contestas que me intentas mejorar.

Yo soy quien me trago tres latas de veneno diario, dices tú, pero no ves que no es mi culpa. Yo no quiero ese veneno dentro de mi cuerpo. No soy yo quien lo compra, quien lo lleva a mis labios y traga. No soy yo quien quiere llorarlo cuatro horas seguidas y prepara magia para ver la luz de la que todos hablan. No. ¿Acaso crees que me gusta vivir así? No… No me gusta vivir, pero vivir así no fue mi decisión.

Pero si te digo eso te enojas. Si te digo que me estás estrangulando te enojas. Si te digo que me importa lo que me dices y que las flechas que sacas de tu boca penetran pero no salen de mi corazón, si te digo que tengo agujeros en mi alma con tu nombre, si te digo que tu esfuerzos erróneos me matan, si te digo que me estoy muriendo por dentro y te necesito… si te digo esto te enojas. Y te tengo miedo.

Tienes un súper poder, pero ya no eres un superhéroe.

Lo fuiste. Fuiste mi héroe el día que me dijiste que me querías al oído, el día que me abrazaste sin saber que lo necesitaba, el día que me admiraste, el día que me impulsaste a ser mejor. El día antes de tus comentarios hirientes, antes de que tu calentura fuera mayor que tu respeto, antes de culparme, antes de manipularme. Antes.

Debo admitir que extraño a mi héroe.


I want to feel the rain pouring down my skin as my tears blend and no one sees them. I wish my face did not become as red when I cry. Then no one would know.

Sometimes I want to see the sun everyone speaks about. I want to feel its rays caress my skin, play in the grass, guess the shape of a cloud.

I don’t see the sun. I only see the clouds. But the clouds I see have no shape. They gloom over me and tie me to my bed.

I wish I could get up. Work is piling up on my desk. Red book, blue book, one book, two books…. I can’t get up.

I watch Netflix. I don’t pay attention. I want to, but my mind drifts into Nowhere. Maybe that’s why I like Netflix so much. I don’t do anything.

I should want to go out. I should be happy. I don’t. I’m not. When I’m out I feel like everyone is having a nice time but me. Words blur into endless streaks of nothingness and their words are muffled. I don’t know what they are saying. I feel outside. I am inside. Not really. They don’t know I am just pretending to look at my computer or that my smiles are fake. I’m not paying attention to my screen. I’m just looking at a random document I opened.

There is work. I have so much to do and so little energy to do it. Every time I cry I feel as if my soul has been dragged down to Earth and is being kept in a little vault. And every time someone speaks nicely I doubt them. That’s not true.

And I have this friend. And he’s nice. When I’m not sad. When I’m sad… I can’t talk. I tried to walk around; I ignored the nagging tears edging near the corners of my eyes. I tried to focus on something – everything – nothing. But then we sat down. And I guess that’s when I lost it. He was nice. Nice. But I stared at the trees, wanting to disappear. Because to me him being nice was a lie. It can’t happen. It’s not logical. Nice is a lie that only exists for those people. People like him. The people I’m not supposed to be with.

I always wanted to be with people like him. I was never good enough.

And I guess when I am sad, I remember that. I don’t deserve it. I scream at him because I’m mad at myself. It’s an anger that burns like scorching acid going down my throat and I can’t cry out for his help. I can only scream. And I push him away because I’m furious. And I’m furious with me because I’m alive.

Tears slide down my face and I hold the pills in my hand. I know they won’t do anything. It’s only five pills. They won’t do much. And I hold them closing my fingers tightly, hanging on to them because they are a tombstone with my name written all over it. I can touch the detailed carving.

I have a plot of land accredited to my name in some graveyard near my college. I see it everyday. And everyday I think of how cozy, how nice, how warm it must be to be underground.

I often ponder about my existence. And after carefully, objectively and slowly analyzing everything, the conclusion is always the same: my existence is useless. What am I if not some stone in everyone’s path?

I have a house, but I don’t know the meaning of home. I have friends, but I do not know what it feels for someone to care about me. I care. I care too much. I care more each day, and I still think of that warm, fuzzy place on my drive to school.

I didn’t take the pills, not because I didn’t want to. I want to. I deeply desire to. But I am a coward. I am one of the most cowardly people I know. He told me not to. I promised not to. But his word and my word and everyone’s words are just letters put together. I want them.

And today I washed a knife, and I saw my blood in it. And it was so perfect. I wanted it in my wrists, but I am a coward; I would have screamed before I had bled out. My hand drove the knife to my stomach, and I started to push. My shirt should have ripped but it didn’t. I shook my head. I dried the knife and put it away.

But I still want it. And each time I close my eyes I don’t want to open them. I hate opening my eyes each morning. I hate seeing the clouds.