Because I am not my body. I am not this decay nor this fly-specked flesh. Or at least, I refuse to be. And yet I am, and with enormous pathos I try to adorn it, because it is the only thing I can offer you. The only thing I can receive from you.

We live as if there were a rehearsal before real life begins; always waiting for when we’ll have more time, when we get older, when we find a partner, when everything finally falls into place. But nothing ever truly falls into place.

Suddenly, every person walking beside me becomes the author of something important. I don’t know exactly what, and I’m not concerned with finding out. Some knowledge is spoiled the moment it is named.

Una enorme infelicidad se ha instalado en mi corazón hace un mes por la noche. Le había visto rondar el bar que frecuento molestando a los comensales, preguntando con insistencia si alguno tendría alguna habitación de sobra que otro sentimiento no estuviera ocupando, pero nadie le contestó y aquello me hizo sentir mal, tan mal…

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.

A year from now, its shadow will still accompany you, decorating the permanent stain of a makeshift patch, an addition of topography on the map of your skin. Evidence that, at that moment, you felt everything in living flesh, and now its mark has become part of you.

Suddenly, the air turned crisp, and the memories grew cold. I know it’s time, but no one taught me how to honor my own death.

It was easy to be a passing cloud, giving you shade, taking it away, offering you its outline.

Bite me slowly, hold me tight. Caress me, write on my skin. What is it? What is it that you want?

You were struggling in vain, incredulous being; you were crying like an infant. Father, your irony! I was questioning your philosophical failings, your temperamental deformities. I rose from the mat where I had been lying, remembering the times you had admitted wanting to be dead. You imagined funeral services: the delight of your passing, the collective martyrdom of your nonexistence.

We are the river. The mother of all. Those of us who do not sleep. We flow through all mouths and all bodies. From within, we make the earth live. We make it green, abundant, we make it grow. To the earth and to the body. To the heart and the livers.

The sea, the one that made me cry on winter nights, now mirrored the erotic movement of your hands.

Coincidences exist, and this text is one of them. A few weeks ago, I went to the place I always go to buy CDs, and by a twist of fate, I found Album, the first record by the now-defunct band Girls.

I try to imagine what it must be like. Entering death. What it felt like to loosen oneself from life. I always think from the place of feeling. For a moment I feel humbled by that absence, and suddenly it seems to me that going on would be nothing more than an unending entering into death. Something like dying a hundred times before really dying.

We buy substitutes for encounters, lands without maps, nomadic, possible. Accustomed to instability, and I always linger on your freckles.

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.

There are also coaches out there selling spells to manifest abundance and make healthy financial decisions while you do sit-ups. However, behind that choreographed display of control, chance, with its ever-present smile, is waiting for you to slip up so it can turn your life upside down.

Scientists estimate that the end of the world will occur in about six to eight billion years, but by then humanity will have been extinct for about two to three billion years.

Me encontró refugiada debajo de un coche tras la tormenta. Lanzaba mordidas y rasguños a la mano que intentaba alimentarme. Me levantó del suelo con una cobija mientras yo, temblorosa, me deshacía en manotazos y zarpadas intentando proteger mis heridas del roce de la manta.

Every day, decide what to have for breakfast. Whether to shower before going out or wait until the evening. Pack lunch or buy something elsewhere. Exercising our free will in every decision, not just letting it be. Thinking about the many or few consequences of each "yes," each "no."

And it's not that I need you every day or all the time, it's sometimes: when it's cold, when I'm alone, when I'm sad, when I have to go to faraway places and when I'm making plans for the future.

I've always liked lying on my stomach with my right leg bent and pointing toward the wall. My bed is a soft rectangle about my size that has been tucked into the right corner of the room since childhood. There's no place in the world where I feel more unsafe.

I'm untouchable now. No one can hurt me. After feeling so much, to feel nothing at all... it's strange. Don't buy me a drink. Don't dedicate songs to me. Don't write me poems or send me messages or flowers. I'm not interested. You're wasting your time.

It must have been the light emanating from my insides at the center of the world, a form of dying unraveling through the fissure, soft, a bloody sweetness, a vulnerable strand of pollen lost in the wound. There, merciful descent to the core.

My entire skin resisted, with the aversion of someone who violates their nature, but I had no choice and I gathered my courage, because to reach my head it had to seep through every pore of my abandoned skin.

With the stories badly told, the maps badly folded, and the lights less bright. But I wanted to meet you, to taste you, to remove the blindfold that covered me, the prejudices that invaded me. The flirting began, I finally met you.

A couple of days ago, while driving home, I thought that, for me, reality hit me for the first time when my father died. At that moment, on the ground of life, I didn't know what to do. Writing, then, couldn't protect me.

I don't think I should have agreed to let you talk to me, because ever since we broke up, I've been avoiding the subject and haven't had time to think about everything that happened. It may seem like a lie, but I'm really so full of other people's things.

I don't know when it happened. One day I woke up and my back started to hurt. The moans escaped me more and more frequently; when I got out of bed, things on the floor seemed unreachable. I began to lose muscle mass, and my hair turned gray and thinned.

We woke up next to each other; a pair of broken souls whose spark had lit up the night and who now, defeated by the dawn, wished they were anywhere but this sordid hotel room.