Morimos un poco todos los días, allí es donde entra el arte. Balanceamos esa muerte creando algo, no importa cuán insignificante sea. El crear, para el ser humano es crucial. Y yo ya no creo nada.
E allí mi desbalance;
me estoy marchitando.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:13 PM UTC
The day they killed me, I woke up unsettled: a couple of roosters had come to harass the hens sleeping in the branches of the avocado tree behind the house. It was still early. The only sunlight in the room was that tiny golden thread trembling through the hole in the roof tiles.
My brain recognized the hangover from last night’s chaparro the moment I opened my eyes. I jumped out of bed looking for water; nothing. Just half a cup of cold, miserable coffee. I swallowed it in one go. In the kitchen, there were childlike footprints made of ash on the floor, but I paid them no mind.
I went to the outdoor sink: dry. Six days already without water or rain. With the three drops that remained, I washed my face and dressed as best as I could. I had all the time in the world that day, yet somehow I was in a hurry. I suppose, without knowing it, I couldn’t wait to die.
I was supposed to meet Paco in the plaza at eight, so I left at seven “to get there early,” or so I said. The road smelled of dust and dead leaves. Among the coca bushes I ran into old Narciso, driving a cart pulled by two skinny oxen—and in the cart, a chained angel.
“Another one, don Narciso?” I asked, walking alongside him.
“Yes, this one will do the miracle,” he said. “See the armor? He’s an archangel.”
“So I see. You’re going to leave heaven empty.”
“Even if I have to drag down God himself, as long as I can heal her. Want a feather for good luck?”
“No, don Narciso. You know divine things don’t take to me.”
“Well, suit yourself. See you around.”
“Good luck.”
He didn’t hear me. He disappeared down the hill, rushing home to cure his wife, who was dying of the Sumpul fever. There isn’t a doctor in this land who can heal her, so Narciso has taken heaven’s justice into his own hands: hunting angels, bleeding them, and giving the blood to his wife to drink. He’s gone through three, without improvement.
I searched my pockets for cigarettes, but found only a red handkerchief. Rushing out, I’d grabbed the wrong pants.
“Idiot, Elías, you idiot,” I muttered.
I thought about throwing it away, but as I walked on, I forgot about it.
The October wind kicked up more dust than usual. The plants along the roadside looked covered in ***** snow. Not a single truck passed—not a soul. No dogs, no voices. Only the stones clicking beneath my boots.
Turning by the cemetery, I saw them: four civil guards in the booth, two more by the cement barrels, and another lifting the gate. A man was under arrest, and two children were watching.
“The handkerchief,” I thought. “The ****** red handkerchief.”
I tried to turn back, but they had already seen me. The four guards left the booth, waiting for me to approach for inspection. I tried to walk calmly, like someone with nothing to hide. Sweat ran down my face; my hands trembled.
“Stop!” one yelled.
“He didn’t do anything!” a child cried. “Elías is my dad’s friend!”
“Shut up, brat, or I’ll take you too!”
“Hands on your head,” another ordered.
They shoved me against the wall.
“Spread your legs.”
They searched everything until they found the handkerchief.
“So you’re a red, you son of a *****
“A woman left that behind—it’s not mine.”
“Sure…” he said, and without warning, hit me with the **** of his rifle.
I fell sitting. The colonel approached, crushing his cigarette under his boot.
“You arrived just in time,” he said. “This one will do as our culprit for what happened in the village. Nobody saw the real man’s face, so this one will be it. Tie the handkerchief on him and get him on the truck.”
The other prisoner was released.
“It’s your lucky day,” the colonel told him. “This one came to save you.”
They handcuffed me, lifted me by an arm each. I felt my eyebrow split open, the warm blood running down to my lip. I barely saw the red of my own blood mixing with the dust.
“We’re going to take you for a little ride,” the colonel said, “so you can say goodbye to everyone. So you can see we’re not as ****** as they say.”
They put me on the truck. We crawled down the main street. People were carrying baskets, machetes, dreams. When they saw us pass, they stopped. Doña Eduviges recognized me:
“Where are you taking him?” she asked.
“To where you think, señora. This one’s an insurgent.”
“No! Elías isn’t into that. Don’t hurt him!”
“That’s what they all say,” the soldier answered.
“God bless you, Elías,” I managed to hear.
By then, I couldn’t see out of my right eye. I felt the dry blood, the shame. Not shame of dying, but of being paraded around like a trophy, like a carnival beast.
I thought of Narciso’s angel.
“Do angels feel shame?” I wondered.
“What time is it?” I asked a soldier.
“Time? Why do you want to know the time? You’ve got nowhere to go.”
The truck continued its funeral procession through town. They showed me through every street as if I were a defeated general. On Calvary Street, the shouting grew louder:
“Don’t **** him! He doesn’t bother anyone! He’s a good man!”
I heard voices pleading for me—people who barely knew me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, but for them. They knew of me, not me. They loved Paco, not me.
We arrived. They dragged me off the truck and hauled me to the wall facing the plaza. The crowd gathered quickly, as if waiting for a show. There were food stands, drinks, fireworks. Everything was noise and silence at the same time.
I felt anger. I pitied the crows that had followed me, the candles that left their dead to trail me from the cemetery. And I felt even sorrier for not having been able to meet Paco.
Judging by the sun, it was nearly nine. Three soldiers stood before me, rifles in hand. The colonel beside them, calm. One soldier approached and blindfolded me with the very handkerchief that condemned me.
I smelled gunpowder. I heard women crying. I felt the shut eye, the dry blood, the still air. And just before losing the light, I saw Paco peeking out from behind the church. It was already too late.
By then, even my shadow had abandoned me. I heard the voices of the ghosts that lived in town.
I took one last breath, trying to carry something with me to the other side.
“Fire!”
Through the thunder of the shots, I heard Paco scream “NO!”—but I no longer saw him.
I didn’t see anything ever again, not even the red cloth over my eyes.
Then came the cold. The cold I’ve carried ever since.
I haven’t seen color or light since that day.
If I’d known the afterlife was so dark and frozen, I would’ve told them to cremate me.
But don’t worry, compadre.
One… gets used to it.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 3:50 PM UTC
If dreams are only that — just dreams
then why, when I wake from one
where I was perfectly at peace,
do I long to return to it,
like a child pressing his face against the glass,
flipping through the jukebox songs,
searching for the one he’d pay to hear again?
And when I cannot go back
when the dream slips beyond reach
why does it feel
as though I’ve been robbed
of an immense and fortune?
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 12:46 PM UTC
Tell me, Lord—
when I kneel with an empty heart,
when my lips touch the chalice but the soul stays dry,
is it communion or cannibalism?
The bread breaks,
but no heaven opens.
The wine bleeds,
but no spirit stirs it.
For faith is the fire that transfigures flesh into mystery;
without it, I chew only matter—
the echo of a god I no longer hear.
I lift the cup, recite the words,
but the body remains wheat,
and the blood—just wine.
So tell me, Lord:
when the ritual remains
but belief has fled,
what do I consume—
Your presence,
or my own hunger?
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
El día que me mataron me despertó el desasosiego: un par de gallos habían venido a acosar a las gallinas que dormían entre las ramas del aguacate detrás de la casa. Todavía era temprano. El único sol en el cuarto era aquel minúsculo hilo dorado que se colaba, tembloroso, por el agujero de las tejas.
Mi cerebro reconoció al instante la resaca por el chaparro de la noche anterior. Salté de la cama buscando agua; nada. Solo media taza de café frío y triste. Me lo tragué de un golpe. En la cocina, había huellas de niño hechas de ceniza sobre el suelo, pero no les presté atención.
Fui a la pila: seca. Ya iban seis días sin agua ni lluvia. Con las tres gotas que quedaban me lavé la cara, y me vestí como pude. Tenía todo el tiempo del mundo ese día, y aun así andaba con prisa. Supongo que, sin saberlo, no podía esperar a morir.
Debía encontrarme con Paco en la plaza a las ocho, así que salí a las siete “para ir con tiempo”, dije. El camino olía a polvo y a hojas muertas. Entre los cocales me topé con don Narciso, que arreaba una carreta jalada por dos bueyes flacos, y en la carreta, un ángel encadenado.
—¿Otro, don Narciso? —le pregunté, siguiéndole el paso.
—Sí, este sí me hace el milagro —dijo—. ¿Le ve la armadura? Es arcángel.
—Así veo. Va a dejar el cielo vacío.
—Aunque tenga que bajar a Dios mismo, con tal de sanarla. ¿No quiere una pluma para la buena suerte?
—No, don Narciso. Usted sabe que las cosas divinas no me quieren.
—Ahí vea usted, pues. Nos vemos.
—Suerte.
Ya no me escuchó. Se perdió cuesta abajo, apurado por llegar a casa a sanar a su mujer, enferma de la fiebre del Sumpul. No hay doctor en toda esta tierra que la cure, así que Narciso se ha tomado la justicia del cielo en sus manos: cazar ángeles, desangrarlos, y darle de beber la sangre a su esposa. Lleva tres, sin mejora.
Me busqué los bolsillos buscando cigarros, pero solo hallé un pañuelo rojo. Por andar con prisas, había agarrado los pantalones equivocados.
—Pendejo, Elías, sos un pendejo —me dije.
Pensé en tirarlo, pero seguí caminando y se me fue olvidando.
El viento de octubre levantaba más polvo que de costumbre. Las plantas al borde del camino parecían cubiertas de nieve sucia. No pasaba ni un camión, ni un alma. Ni un perro, ni un ruido. Solo las piedras chocando bajo mis botas.
Al doblar frente al cementerio los vi: cuatro guardias civiles en la caseta, dos más junto a los barriles de cemento, y otro que levantaba la barrera. Había un hombre detenido, y dos niños mirando.
“El pañuelo”, pensé. “El maldito pañuelo rojo.”
Intenté dar la vuelta, pero ya me habían visto. Los cuatro salieron de la caseta, esperándome para la requisa. Traté de caminar tranquilo, como quien no debe nada. El sudor me corría por la cara; las manos me temblaban.
—¡Deténgase! —gritó uno.
—¡Él no tiene nada que ver! —chilló un niño—. ¡Elías es amigo de mi papá!
—¡Cállate, mocoso, o te llevo también!
—Manos sobre la cabeza —ordenó otro.
Me empujaron contra la pared.
—Abra las piernas.
Registraron todo hasta encontrar el pañuelo.
—Así que sos rojo, hijo de puta.
—Una mujer dejó ese pañuelo, no es mío.
—Seguro… —dijo, y sin aviso, me golpeó con la culata del fusil.
Caí sentado. El coronel se acercó, aplastando su cigarro bajo la bota.
—Llegaste justo a tiempo —me dijo—. Este nos va a servir de culpable por lo del pueblo. Nadie vio la cara del responsable, así que este es. Cuélguenle el pañuelo y súbanlo al camión.
El otro prisionero fue liberado.
—Es tu día de suerte —le dijo el coronel—. Te vino a salvar este.
Me esposaron, me levantaron de un brazo cada uno. Sentía la ceja abierta, la sangre tibia bajándome al labio. Apenas veía el rojo de mi propia sangre mezclado con el polvo.
—Te vamos a llevar a pasear —dijo el coronel—, a que te despidas de todos. Para que veas que no somos tan mierdas como dicen.
Me subieron al camión. Avanzamos despacio por la calle principal. La gente cargaba canastas, machetes, sueños. Al vernos pasar, se detenían. Doña Eduviges me reconoció:
—¿A dónde lo llevan? —preguntó.
—A lo que cree usted, doña. Este es de los insurgentes.
—¡No! Elías no anda en esas cosas. No le hagan daño.
—Así dicen todos —respondió el soldado.
—Dios te bendiga, Elías —alcancé a oír.
A esas alturas ya no veía nada del ojo derecho. Sentía la sangre seca y la vergüenza. No por morir, sino por andar paseado como trofeo, como bestia de feria.
Pensé en el ángel de don Narciso.
“¿Sentirán vergüenza los ángeles?”, me pregunté.
—¿Qué hora es? —pregunté a un soldado.
—¿Hora? ¿Para qué querés saber la hora? Ya no tenés a dónde ir.
El camión siguió su ruta fúnebre por el pueblo. Me mostraron por todas las calles, como si fuera un general derrotado. En la calle del Calvario, los gritos fueron más fuertes:
—¡No lo maten! ¡Él no se mete con nadie! ¡Es buena gente!
Escuchaba voces que rogaban por mí, de gente que apenas me conocía. No sentía pena por mí, sino por ellos. Conocían de mí, no a mí. Querían a Paco, no a mí.
Llegamos. Me bajaron a empujones y me arrastraron al paredón frente a la plaza. La multitud se congregó rápido, como si esperara una función. Había puestos de comida, de bebidas, de cohetes. Todo era ruido y silencio al mismo tiempo.
Me daba rabia. Me daban pena los cuervos que me habían acompañado, las veladoras que parecían seguirme desde el cementerio. Y más pena aún por no haber podido encontrarme con Paco.
Juzgando por el sol, eran casi las nueve, tres soldados se pararon frente a mí, fusiles en mano. El coronel a su lado, sereno. Uno se acercó y me vendó los ojos con el mismo pañuelo que me condenó.
Olía a pólvora. Escuchaba a las señoras llorando. Sentía el ojo cerrado, la sangre seca, el aire detenido. Y justo antes de perder la luz, alcancé a ver a Paco asomarse detrás de la iglesia. Ya era demasiado tarde.
A ese punto, hasta mi sombra me había abandonado. Escuché las voces de los fantasmas que vivian en el pueblo.
Di un último suspiro, queriendo llevarme algo al otro lado.
—¡Fuego!
Entre el estruendo, escuché a Paco gritar “¡NO!”, pero ya no lo vi.
Ya no volví a ver nada, ni siquiera la venda roja sobre mis ojos.
Entonces llegó el frío. Ese frío que cargo desde entonces.
No he visto color ni luz desde aquel día.
Si hubiera sabido que el más allá era tan oscuro y helado, les habría dicho que me cremaran.
Pero no se preocupe, compadre.
Uno… se acostumbra.
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC
Although sometimes I’ve killed you in my writings.
There has been nights where I resucitate you.
Mar 24, 2024
Mar 24, 2024 at 4:30 PM UTC
Ok. I've cracked it.
I know what it is that attracts me to this girl and it is nothing but physical appearance, like most.
She doesn't know what my favorite color is, she never asked me what mine is.
I know what hers is, I know what time she looks at the sunsets, and at that time she texts me in
the morning. I know her eye color and what she bleeds. I know every sentiment she got
throughout the day, but does she?
Does she know what I go through and at what hour?
Does she care at least what my favorite color is, and why is it gray?
Does she care about my degree and why would I pursue a higher education to give her a good
life?
Does she really care about me?
No
She doesn't care
She cares about the way I make her feel
She cares how much I care about her needs and that's it.
So I cracked it.
This is why she loves me texting her drunk. So I can tell her how special she is, without being
special. Everyone was right. It was infatuation. But how? I am not manic. I should not be like
this. My meds are working, and god is in his heaven, so everything is good. So how. How do I
care so deeply about someone so hollow?
So I cracked it.
This is it. Even if she lies with me, even if she holds my hand, even if she tells me she likes
me…
This is my first heartbreak.
Isn't that amazing?
My first time realizing someone doest like me the way I like them.
And she never has and she never will, but this should be good.
Sep 26, 2023
Sep 26, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
Give everyone their thanks,
Smelling like chrysanthemums they sing their songs
They ask them to celebrate my life.
All I see from here are smiles
I am living through a storm here, your prayers are way too early.
You were the blood in my vains, the only constant in my life.
May my place not be up for sell just not yet.
I also dont ask for a shrine. Please save my seat for a bit.
The scarse people yawn in boredom, they murmur that I was lost cause, meanwhile a choir sings Ave Maria.
Some are looking for gold, while I'm only looking to not let your hand go. And to see your face a bit longer. Here, infront of this audience, one last wish:
Please save my seat for a while.
Thank you for this farewell.
Even though the present body might be an overkill. It is as if you're celebrating my downfall.
Then you might as well have enough mezcal.
I spent the whole time looking at your eyes, you were holding in your tears. I may have to leave you soon. I wont be able to hold it in for too long, remmeber that you were my everything.
My island, in the middle of this ocean....
Please save my seat for a while,
and go on home. Nobody else will come.
Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 3:20 AM UTC
In every romantic interaction I've ever had with a woman. I've always had the upper hand. Even those times where it seemed as if I was going to lose. I always ended up dealing with the cards. Up until now. This one time, I am the one waiting for their turn. I am at a handicap. It is frustrating, even humbling, being at the mercy of someone while being vulnerable.
Is this what people feel? What it's like to take a leap of faith when it's a matter of the heart? I tend not to take such risks, and maybe it is why I've never really been in love. But how can someone enjoy the ride so much when you're sitting on the edge of a world that could collapse at any second? How do you give so much with no safety net?
Maybe I've been a shallow person my whole life, but this all sounds to me like the perfect cocktail for one thing and one thing only.
A broken
Heart.
Anyways. You will all hear about it later.
Sep 11, 2023
Sep 11, 2023 at 11:53 PM UTC
I write to the only people who can commit genocide and get away with not writing it in their own history books.
To the "winners".
To you, Anglo that support military intervention that destabilize entire countries just so you can keep a cheap labor force to come clean your **** every two weeks or whenever Ms. Smith thinks is adequate.
To you that split my continent in two.
To you that still assassinate our leaders.
To you that incite violence in foreign lands.
To you that have been breaking in and looting our homes for centuries and then complain when we move in next door.
To you that blindly follow uncle Sam.
To you that rise walls instead of bridges
To you who close your doors to the land of our cousins Navajo.
To you, who sit in every corner to stuff your faces with food made by the hands you hate.
To you, who sit in the sun for hours to have our skin color, but without the prejudice.
To you, who still gets offended because we're not separated anymore.
To you, who still seek to divide us.
This is for the cowboys that tip their hats to tell you good morning and when twilight falls they put their hoods on and kneel on a black brother's neck.
And that's another thing.
You turned your back on half of your people.
People who have been forgotten for decades living in projects.
People who are rotting in jail for committing a crime that could've gone unpunished if only they didn't have so much pigmentation in their skin.
Did you forget already that it was them who looked after your home?
Did you forget that it was them who sowed your cotton fields?
Or that they built all your monuments?
Did you forget that they fought beside you to stop a genocide in Europe all while still silently crying theirs?
Did you forget that it was them who raised your ancestors? And if it wasn't for the lumberjack they would've raised you too.
But I do not speak to all anglos.
There's some I want to thank.
Those who have helped me more than my own brothers.
Those who welcomed me with open arms
Those who without letting out a laughter, tried to decipher what I was trying to tell them.
Those who wants us here because they get it.
Those who use their privilege so injustices reach the ears of the ignoramus who sits on the left wing of the house that was once the home of the lumberjack.
Those are the real sons of Washington.
You are just a bunch of sons of *******
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 5:21 PM UTC