The presence of pain
it pushes the back of my neck
manifested
as it sends shivers up my spine

there to constantly remind
me that the silence is so deafening
I could sink into the floor
and no one would hear me

in pictures
i always draw your neck too long.
even my own hands know
that i was never your equal.

The room is so dimly lit
and this seat just uncomfortable enough
not to sit.
For too long, at least.
I shuffle, I raise my knees,
anything to see
if I can make this fit.
But it's too bad and my back's tight.
Enough to think - alright,
I'll move.
Maybe another chair is better.
But being a little uncomfortable keeps me awake.
Always trying to see if in a different state
it could serve me.
And really my feet sure are tired.
So I sit back down
and I wait
until the night turns late.
I shift, I sink, I adjust, I think
about how this room is so dimly lit,
and how this seat is just uncomfortable enough
not to sit.

I'd rather be missed
than be there.
To leave a place,
to take up mental space,
is like a shot in the arm.

My upbringing taught me
it's better to be wanted
than to be present.

I will always want to be chased.
I believe
to settle will be my grace.

It didn’t feel good
But it felt
And for that
I can ask nothing else
_

No me sentí bien
Pero me sentí
Y por eso
no puedo pedir nada más

You looked at me like an imposer on your norm. As if I were a dreaded interaction with a distant Aunt. “You’ve grown so much” , as you look back glassy eyed, wondering how you can take up such space in a strangers memory without consent. You kiss her on the cheek and let your words skim the surface of daily nothings, to appease the peace.

You once looked at me like an unexpected find. As if you walked into a book store with side-eyed intentions, even still, encountering a book with enticing decor. You decide to crack it open, intrigue urging you to check if it’s worth it’s embellished coat. You make the gamble, buy the book, read a line and sink, you’re hooked.

Until it gets shelved among it’s fellow bound narratives, to hopefully one day be leafed through, touched by uncommitted fingers on a day with extra time. You read through a few pages that once gripped your soul but now simply invite an additional intake of breath, only to give credit that it once meant more. You close the story and put us back in it’s rightful place.

You’ll reopen it again.
You’ll draw more breaths.
You’ll make nice with a distant aunt.
And you’ll keep giving books a chance.
And you will forever look at me with foreign eyes.