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What I write on my window
The night was made for the writer, to grapple with insomnia and the hidden words of the day. And silence? Silence was also made for the writer. And chaos? Chaos too. Everything was made so that I could write.
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March eighth
They can’t find their voice and cry softly, while I scream for those who do not scream. I cry for those who cry.
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Three blocks away
If I close my eyes, I always think about fantasies. I could move houses once a month. My mom calls me cold, but I would say reversible.
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Everything black turns blue
Bite me slowly, hold me tight. Caress me, write on my skin. What is it? What is it that you want?
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Berceloneta
The sea, the one that made me cry on winter nights, now mirrored the erotic movement of your hands.
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It was Sunday
When I get home, I think about the object I chose for my enjoyment, even though the battery has been dead for a while; I haven't even used it for three days since I bought it. Sexuality and self-exploration are rituals I don't want to let fall into decline.
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They tease me for being a lesbian
The wretch keeps telling me the same thing. He walks down the street with his two hands empty, busying himself with other people's chores. The words fall from his mouth. My chest: two fractions of anxiety. I laugh, needing to snuggle up in a plush blanket.
