We didn’t last long without pressing together like an exclamation mark; I had been watching her for a while.
Her absent-mindedness mirrored me, filling her words with sincerity and a shallow, playful grin.
I have five vegetables in the rice and a strong desire to see you.
Four garments to hang, and I’m picky.
Too much common sense in this society.
I force myself to drink water like a camel by a heater, I listen to Sandro seven times a month.
My eyes shine when I want to cry, and my myopia blurs my view.
I touch my heart whenever I can’t find myself.
Simplicity seems boring to me, yet I love staying silent.
I ask too many questions, but say very little.
At chin-chon I lose myself, I play competitively.
I make a fuss in the café; I’ve always been my best actress.
I like the sweet, and also the savory.
I get angry at tactlessness, overwhelmed by others’ lack of it.
If I close my eyes, I always think of fantasies.
I could move houses once a month.
My mom says I’m cold, but I’d call myself reversible.
I must admit I’m drawn to her legs, as much as I am to falling asleep next to her again.
Anyway, I’m leaving; the microwave is cooling down.
Photography by Monica Ochoa.
Actress and poet from Buenos Aires. Lesbian and feminist, she writes from personal experience, sensitivity, and a critical perspective on contemporary life.