Mente Mezcla

You. Are only two blocks away and this the ballad of she Drunk. In love with a gay. Who won’t curse her, Turn her vibe into badmouth jive Won’t make her feel anything but alive. You. With your blue eyes and heavy sighs. All meant for he who will never head your cries Baby boy polite and thee most subtle might Your kisses, I’d never have but in which I would find the greatest delight Just two blocks away from every uneasy word I say. What a shitty day.

Will your name be the last I utter from my lips? (yes) I have lived in service of lust, treating my well-being like a god, (Never goddess, there’s a difference) I can’t seem to stop in desperation And though I wish they were fewer, those silent screams They are as much my universe as your long remembered touch Oh how I broke myself against you, like water to rock. A fool’s gold quarry, split and shiny but worthless Despite this death you brought I will love you in multitudes of forever. But remain quiet longer.

Scarification mornings with tea and oatmeal Counting off each day, every day One slash at a time, an angst burdened teenager in a middle-aged body (I bought a house, you know. It is big and empty.) Inhale vitamins to balance wine against fake smiles, while I dream of a time when Gauloises wouldn't have hurt Paper embers encircling tobacco, small and smaller and smallest until I disappear into the smoke of all I've forgotten There's Me Deciding never to write of you after this Wishing I could do same with these thoughts of calloused hands cupping my breasts Of being lifted into your eternity With each thrust So now I am pathetic, the kind of woman-girl at whom I shake my head Here's Me Closing in-on a year of oh-so-broken, in quietest whispers, that my bones crack and separate as I sleep walk through the hours Took time away from the bottle even but you were too vivid without a black out (I blame the flame for all of it.)

In the early parts of the last few months, I wrote witchy words on worn parchment, asking for you to come back. Then I burned them, indigo paper feathers blown into thin mountain air. You couldn’t have known the ceremony, it was in my head. It was also in my head that it was better you were gone, eventually, as each ritual became less necessary with your assured distance and my growing disdain not for you, but for having lost you. I floated through summer blocking the sunshine with white-rimmed shades because you are the kind of boy a girl copies, not the other way around. I wear darker colored glasses now to shield my eyes, conceal any trace of your reflection in them because surely you are imprinted there. I want no one to see the chimera I carry, including myself. So I stopped looking into my own eyes even… You ripped off the Band-Aid too soon and though I was left bloody, the scab would eventually come by autumn. I traced its rippled colors with leaves of similar crispy crims...