The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Pensaba que era alguien
y era mi reflejo.

Era yo,
era mi cuerpo,
no era yo
era mi avatar en este mundo,
un hombre joven y asustadizo,
no era yo.

Pensaba que era alguien
y era mi reflejo.

Mi reflejo,
ese mundo mudo e invertido,
como este tantas veces.
Espero que a mi reflejo le vaya mejor que a mí.
Ciertamente tiene mi cuerpo,
vaya desgracia.
Aunque tal vez en su inversión
se reniega de mi condición transgénero,
de mi desgracia con los expertos de la salud mental.
Tan invertido ese mundo de reflejo
que tal vez pueda disfrutar de sus amigos,
disfrutar de su reflejo.

Mi relación con los espejos
siempre fue de amor-odio.
Amor porque la científica en mi
sólo veía un instrumento semimágico
que replica nuestra realidad.
Odio porque yo no estoy en esa realidad.
Un energúmeno ocupa mi lugar,
un inútil al que odio con todo mi ser.
Un chico.
De pequeña jugaba a que luchaba con ese chico,
nunca pude derrotarle,
sigue ahí.
No era yo,
era mi reflejo.
Mi archienemigo.
Mi odio.

//

I thought it was someone
and it was my reflection.

It was me,
it was my body,
it wasn't me
it was my avatar in this world,
a young and shy man,
it wasn't me.

I thought it was someone
and it was my reflection.

My reflection,
that mute, inverted world,
like this one so many times.
I hope my reflection is doing better than me.
Certaintly it has my body,
what a pitty.
Although maybe in its inversion
it denies my transgender condition,
my disgrace with mental health experts.
So inverted is that world  of reflection
that it may enjoy its friends,
enjoy its reflection.

My relationship with mirrors
has always been of love-hatred.
Love because the scientist in me
only saw a semimagic instrument
that copies our reality.
Hatred becouse I am not in that reality.
A madman takes my place,
a vane man that I hate with all my being.
A boy.
When I was young I fightplayed with that boy,
I never could defeat him,
he's still there.
It wasn't me,
it was my reflection.
My nemesis.
My hatred.

I’m sorry to all the people
I hurt while I was hurting.
I know my skin
felt like shards of glass,
and no one could get close
enough to touch me.
My fingernails were caked with blood,
and I am so sorry
that I don’t know whose it was.
I am sorry to those I broke
with my razor words,
they were my own regrets.
They were used to cut open
my own insecurities
when I thought I had run out.
I was lost
in a forest of my own doubt,
the trees were too dense
to believe
in myself.
The only way to find my place
was with a paper cut trail
leading to my home of denial.
My brain was shreds of late reports
and missed deadlines,
and I was just an inkblot of a person,
all I could see was my own skeleton in the pages.
I do not know how to send this apology
without it soaked in my tears,
but I am sorry,
I
am
so
s o r r y

How she felt

Could never compare to his

Feeling miserable shouldn’t be a competition

But if it was

He’d surely win

He couldn’t escape his emptiness

It was hooked to his ankles

And his wrist like chains

He would hide in music

Blast it in his ears

Hoping to rebuke it

He only felt emotions as the songs played

And as soon as they ended, he immediately felt alone

But he didn’t know where to turn

And often flirted with death

In the form of a loaded gun and a bottle of pills

Sitting on the shelf

He could never do it

As much as he hated life

He wanted to live

So he’d laid in bed and wondered

Why he felt dead inside