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.

liberation

I feel her in the tea that I know by herb and not by brand, 

she’s glistening in shadows that hug the city. The mountains forget what time it is. 

they lose themselves in the clouds like when my tummy hurt at the beach and all I could do is

lay

lay

lay

looking up trying to figure out who was looking down

what is a God if not the desire to be perceived with purpose rather than objective

I can taste the centrism perceived by the gringos that laugh at the words I can’t pronounce,

they think they’re so smart to battle the tongues of all the women who could not speak,

I was carried in wombs that weren’t allowed to see

the sun 

pray to the stars 

// without // screams

I crave the land like I crave my mother

looking at the mirror and glaring at the teenager that mothered spirits born and unborn

carried weights of absent men 

formed regrets of pubescent care

yet

I see her in the blossoms down the street from my window

I see her in the gardens that I’ll sow with my kindness

I see her in the mirror when I drop an insult to my knees and let it roll melted in neurons

I see her in my wish for love when all I’ve felt is deprived of such

my hands are dry but the rain is full

The voices in my head

you know what bothers me the most? it’s never how much someone pulls away, or how they read your scars with self-diagnosis, how they judge your responses.

it’s the lies. the lie of their care. the lie of their fear. the lie of their contempt.

am I so gullible to think that still, through the lies, I can love you? I must be so crazy to see your pity as high regard. I had forgotten that silence perceived feels anxious but understood can be weaponized.

I must be a fool to answer the questions I know I can’t even answer to myself. you make me brave the same way you make me weak, with a curiosity to feel the ether of my beginnings yet inspect the scars near the ends.

It must be some gift to make the storyline so real, so raw, to watch the different paths dissipate with a tap.

Distance has never seen me grow, it has always seen me drown.

I’d forgotten that the only ear that hears me scream at night is mine, the one that wakes up in tears, remorse, fear.

yet here I am, wondering who will get to hold your hand at night when you can’t sleep, dry your tears when you can’t beat em, and dream to live with you.

Cual es la verdad?

I miss you,

so much that it scares me to see you.

Would you be mad if I told you?

my love for you sings in silence.

I heard your voice in the cabin of my car

driving to see you while getting high,

shaping my symptoms from falling behind

telling you I lied, I wanted to cry.

These times I wanted to hide,

that these days of being alone have

given me the strength to pass life by.

I thought of an intro much livelier than that,

an extrovert who dreams of your silence rather than your sigh.

Sometimes I think about what I’ve left behind,

consuming energies darker than mine

all for performing a damn fucking lie,

regretting the lone nights I didn’t have

What is an extrovert in bed called?

a loud scream for peace absent of goodbye.

reEncuentros

Nostalgia: I met her in a movie theater somewhere in coral gables under the half-moon sky and with tears pouring down my eyes.

I saw her again in the lies of a lover, the deceit in our love; its eternal manifestation.

I let her stream through my ears via the words of great artists that I can’t call or text, even e-mail if it was still a transactionless mode of conversation.

I had coffee with her in a make-a-wish version of a Parisian cafe as we bonded over existentialism and emotional ruptures birthed generations before mine.

When I came face to face with her, all I could ask myself was why she was withholding tears from her eyes when the truth we came to know deep within poured out into realness.

When I’d seen her before, all I wanted to do was get lost in her, ask her the questions I couldn’t answer about my past, present, and future, and let myself seep in the emptiness of answers.

But this time, this time I felt her far away from my feelings and tribulations.

Have I forgotten? Am I this numb to it all? Did I really give up my consent to move on when she knocked on my doors and closed my windows?

When she questioned herself in front of me in regard to her morality and looked for a bite I could not produce, all I could do is question mine for thinking about the fact that I have not thought or felt this much distance between my thoughts and her aforementioned facts before this reunion.

How could I forget to remember, to feel the same pains that grew inside me even if just for a few hours, months, a year? A mirage of what life could’ve been with the liar, the ghost, the fool, and the null.

I love them all the same, but differently now. Even when I’m sitting here, having coffee with the same nostalgia that will haunt them for the rest of their lives.

I wish I could just see it, hear it, feel how much they flinch when they hear my name, remember my soul, pay homage to my body.

All the possessions I always owned but was willing to grow in tandem with theirs.

Yet here I am, still alone, forgiving her for leaving me again.

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