mi familia me dice me ya no me siente muy mexicana
pero no tengo nada de gringa
y pues de chicana muy poco
en los que no me siento ni Ana
It’s not that I am dying and wish I wasn’t. It’s that I’m dying and don’t care about it.
I need so much of myself and I don’t know where she is. I don’t know if she’s ever been. How much of myself is my own? And how much of my own do I know? The mirror evokes no sadness, no happiness; I don’t know who this person is and I don’t care for her.
some Jesus freaks “saved” me today and all I could think about was the many times I’ve written with certainty that I’m going to die by my own hand. all I could think about was the letters and all the things I’ve never told anyone. I’ve never fostered friendships because all my life I have felt like I’m going to die soon and today these people said that I’m going to start to see god’s love everywhere. I don’t think I care about god, or about myself. All I can think about is the letters, and I always have
i honestly don’t know why i’m part of the nosebleeds
but stefan, i thank you very very much.
the biggest tragedy of my life / the eternal longing of my heart / the itch that will not, cannot quit/ the faint tingle in my feet / the constant grind of my teeth / the perpetual cry of my childhood / the rape of my adolescence / the vague and stained truth of my self
when you kiss me don’t forget this is inside my mouth, too
a baby dies before her teeth come in. before she knows if the smell of damp rugs will remind her of a nosebleed. of a bathtub filled with bleach. before bleach washes someone else’s sins on her clear skin. her purity a disease. a cancer she won’t suffer. the cancer her mother will grow in her kidneys for the next two years. the lengthy cancer that will make your teeth fall out so neither of you have adult teeth to lie through.
In the end, I found, I was the stale punch line of a joke someone you didn’t want to talk to in the subway told.
Here, crumbles of my hips grind against the lengthy regrets under my bed. Maybe, after long enough, its edges will be smoothed, my hips collected, and my words precise like the love I didn’t have.