Answer of the day

At this point, there’s enough questions surfing through TikTok that anyone who struggles to succumb to the truth will lose faith in answers.

Yet when the rhythm of “Good Days” unravels a masked sadness, I know why the answers aren’t spelled out into words. They belong to the silence that unraveled with you.

There’s enough ambiguity between who we are and how we are that it has become so unappealing for either of us to look and not run.

I wonder what your coffee looks like these mornings. Is it sweeter? bitter? lonely?

Like in chess all the pieces at play are compromised, they switch word for word and trust for none. Checkmate is pain, it’s remiss recognition. What I wondered then and fear now is so different and cloudy. How could I take away the picture of us with a mistake that is worth fixing? how could YOU let it go so easy? was that all made up and disposed already? was I that easy to forget?

I didn’t want those words to come out. I never do. I want to keep pretending that things are fine and that they will miss us. that we will miss us. and that when we come back, if we come back, things will be easier, purposeful, and real.

No lies allowed. Only a pass for the bathroom, a pass to obscure, a pass to lie low when aiming high is too out of touch.

I don’t know what this is or what it was meant to be. I’m just angry.



Alone. For so long I’ve been alone, not just lonely.

I remember being a kid who saw, spoke, felt, mourned, and had hope. But it was not based on the ideas that those before me and those after me would provide me with a net of safety. Now I have to rise up and be the net, and hold myself, and hold them back.

I got used to the silence in my bed. I got used to the sweats and the tears. I got used to the haunting of them all in my dreams and my nightmares. There’s always this mountain in between us, physically and emotionally.

I dream of union, and I resent it. I dreamt once of Venezuela and their mountains, like ours, luscious and green, full of life and water. But then I dreamt of serpents next to it, curves, the highway and the road that should never be driven. El actual culo del diablo.

Pero I wasn’t scared, I was tanning. I was sipping on a drink with my mom reimagining our lives and the ones who we wished were there with us. My brother came to mind when I sipped that drink.

“I wish the babies were here, I wish we could be in their lives more. I miss them”.

It’s been more than 500 days since I last saw them and I would, quite literally, give up anything to have them near me. To give them a hug and talk to them about their history, about our herstories.

“Donde estan?” say’s mama about G and A.

“Estan bañándose en el rio, disfrutando del agua.”

“aaaa ya, está bien, entonces vamos a cocinar si quieres”

“Pero se dañó el ventilador y tendríamos que sufrir de calor”

“no, tranqui ya voy a arreglarlo, como siempre, voy yo a arreglarlo”

Refunfuñando me fui. I then loop into a fight with my dad over how much we need to pay to fix the broken parts of the fan. He, like always is trying to cheat, and me, like always, trying to tell the truth. I can’t escape that fight.

For him, it must be his life’s worth that money is worth everything in life, yet, for me the fight is how it will never replace honesty and human decency. Respect. Honor.

Maybe I’m foolish to fight against exactly what I’m attracted to. I crave the lies and I bore with the honesty of souls that want to capsule mine but are not reactive with chaos for me to receive. I envy those who can make it work, who can ignore. Likewise, I wonder just for a day what it would’ve been like if it had never been a fight.

But my ex says, “my life would be more interesting if we fought like we used to.”

I guess that’s my selling point. I’ll fight for you, I’ll fight with you, I’ll fight alongside you, but still. That’s never enough.

Then there are the nightmares in my childhood bed, the one that has enough sabanas for all the people that slept in it like they slept through me. I always go back to running into that room and closing the door like gasping for air. Somehow even though I remember the lock didn’t work, in my dreams all my hopes lie in it. In its function and use, like a shield I know too well to disappoint me.

I run through the houses and spaces that scare me and I coddle myself into that room like it’s never seen me before. Or rather, like I never meant it to see me before.

A fight breaks out. I get burned outside my door, and all I can do is lay in a bed full of roaches and menace that keeps chasing me alive into a deeper hole than the one I’m crying to be left out of.

“Abre la puerta Bárbara, abre la puerta te digo. No me voy a repetir. Abre la puerta.”

All my life I’ve been told to open doors I cry to shut. I think this is why swinging them open to threats that make me just as scared to run as they do to fall makes me romantic.

It makes me want to be wanted. So much that many times I end up here, forgetting what I was chasing in the first place, because feeling this empty in theory feels the same as it did in the chase.

Romantic Delusion

My first love was invisible.

My first love was invisible.

I fell in love with someone who made me believe in love again. Someone who wore their mind on their sleeve but kept their heart locked up in the safeguards of isolation. Someone who promised to tell the truth about who they were and what they’ve been through but used their leverage over my emotions to get what they wanted and skip over the rest. I fell in love with an illusion of what I now know I want the next person I love to be like, and what I know I’ve loved for years. I fell in love with a trap, a disguise, a magic trick.

To you, my love, I dedicate this letter. I doubt that you’ll ever know the truth; not because I’m afraid or incapable of telling you, but rather because you “told me so”, and thus I’ve decided that you don’t deserve it.

When we met it was like I had felt myself again, like I believed in who I was and what I believed in like you believe in your convictions and your beliefs. Since we met, we’ve had small periods of time to spare and get to know each other, and I guess quickly we vaguely did. I had never met someone who was foundationally unafraid to show me their intentions, share their feelings, and find existential meaning in words like you did. You could tie a bar to a memory, a recollection of feelings, a gut-wrenching anger for those who suffer. Yet you could also wallow in your privileged guilt and humble yourself to fire your passion for helping others with the opportunities you were given.

When I met you, my mind couldn’t stop thinking, processing, wanting you. Every meeting was filled with questions, concerns, doubts, but nonetheless passion. I was passionate about learning about you, who you like (or don’t like), what you deal and how you deal, why you believe and why you do not; in everything and anything. I had become the girl that went along, thought twice about letting fears and insecurities seep in, became less cautious and more outgoing. I became someone who pushed and showed interest in what I wanted.

Yet, when I made a move you sat there, gawking. Seeing me like I’ve never been exposed before, showing you the symbols buried in my skin.  I took you as a sign and accepted your distance. Timing and distance weren’t in our favor, and now I know the reason.

I stayed thinking, listening, supporting, and helping you believe in yourself. Even today, I stand beside you selflessly and relentlessly fighting to believe in the one inch of courage I have to believe that my love for you was true, honest, REAL.

But I cannot, you see. I can’t believe your story, your words, your denial and rejection of me and us and you and me because when we were the most intimate, you were there with me. On the same frequency, on the same team, in the same room, on the same bed.

I never pushed you to care. Rather, I masked your intentions to use me and morphed them into what I wanted you/them to be; sincere interest, concern, maybe love. But it couldn’t have ever grown because with you I let myself fall. Fall behind on being critical about our relationship, about my feelings for you, about who you really are. So, since the last time I saw you, I’ve come to a few conclusions.

You’re selfish, you are mean, you lied to me, you betrayed me. You played me like you told me you have done to others, like you said you didn’t want to play me, like you said I shouldn’t be treated. You prescribed all the symptoms just as they occurred. Except I’m not who they were prescribed for, I’m seeing that now.

Even though I wanted to be everything, now I know I was nothing.

Maybe you’ll know who you are and hate me. Maybe you already do. Maybe we’ll never speak again. I’d wonder if I could.


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