(No puedo hablar la lengua.)
I cannot speak my father's native tongue.
(No puedo hablar suficiente...)
At least, not enough of it to get by.
(...no entiendo, lo siento.)
The body I inhabit feels like foreign territory.
(No lo se.)
My grasp of it ends here.

I. OTRA VIDA

Dia de san valentin, 2000: mi padre aprendió inglés por amor; voló a través del mar Mediterráneo. Él tiene miedo de los sonidos cuando trata de hablar. Pero él lo intenta. Él habla casi perfectamente -- mientras, estoy teniendo una conversación uno-a-uno con Google. Es vergonzoso.

I recall two or three trips, max. There's a blend of urban and natural that's a haven for the eye -- the buildings themselves are seduced by the sun; divine blends of amber, tawny, white. Classically Romantic. That nighttime humidity fogs up your lungs and makes it feel like a hug. There was a time when we were poised to move back there - and in Dad's case, another, nearly leaving without any desire to take me with him.

My makeshift home is built upon stereotypes: orange trees, olive oil, generous glasses of vino. Pienso qué un otra vida where I'm stood on the beach at dusk, with heavy-lidded eyes and ears attuned to cicadas and rolling waves. This is narcissistic lust for the woman I could've been - she is all smiles, bilingual, peace embodied. Those are the nights when I'm not careful: she leaves my bed by morning.

II. ESTA VIDA

To mourn the "what ifs" shows a lack of gratitude for what is, and god, what luck! For inglés to be the second most-spoken language, de-facto "centre of the universe"! To migrate most anywhere and get by; for the Western world to be coerced into Anglophonic bliss since tourism makes their ends meet!

On a holiday, I clam up ordering "una batista fresa" and get a taste of how my father feels. José Francisco: his colleagues call him Frank, in the same way I shun my legal surname because a Spanish 'LL' is too hard for others to grasp. I reek of privilege - post-post-Franco, white European, playing with my non-language behind closed doors. There's private delight in a rolled 'r': momentarily, I'm local, not a mere faux-foreigner appropriating my own heritage. Ironic - he tries to be "less immigrant" whilst I've got the fortune of trying to be more.

I was born into a universe of possibilities. A million options feel like fate -- screenwriter, Oxford grad, Spanish barmaid-or-waitress-or-I'll-take-whatever -- each unchased path is a reminder that, somehow, I'm choosing wrong. I've never perceived myself as small (ex-tall child, "ex"-chubby kid with a head outstretching the clouds, first of the eleven-year-olds to grow **** and got gawped at like I'd grown an extra nostril). Outside this hall of mirrors, I am tiny -- too small to have this many dreams -- manifesting as terror-borne paralysis because I want to do more than I'm built for. Solution: aim smaller or grow up.

Today a most peculiar day.
All was in an orderly way.
Every kid was sorted in a row.
All was neat and tidied with a bow.

And when was asked to write down our name.
All pens moved inmedeatly the same.
There were names in purple, pink, red and blue,
But my pitch black ink pen just didn't do.

Everybody looks at me and frowns.
I felt an idiot, and they all looked like clowns.
The worst part was the unwanted pity.
As if I've been through the worst in this city.

For my ink wrote words as black as my soul.
The words to never be read at all.
My name as dark as a beetle eye.
For I still don't know,... Who am I?

But every word I wrote down on my sheet.
And every time my name was written so neat.
My pen would lose it's ink more and more.
And the darkness would seize, dry and sore.

And that is how my inner colour shone.
As every letter left my comfort zone.
My silver words now burst with light.
To think they used to be as dark as night.

Write your pain away.
But allow your ink to stay.
For we grow and we learn.
With every feelings that burn.

the more we look
the more we see
i look like you
you look like me

the less we tend
to disagree
on the little things
that are bothering

the more we talk
and get along
the more is right
the less is wrong

the more we love
the less we hate
we more or less
will find a way

the more we hold
each other up
the less chance of
coming undone

the more we look
the more we see
we more or less
will all agree

that i'm like you
and you're like me
all one big happy
family