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Shallow Nov 2019
Could I tell you the ways in which you free me?
Or sing to you a song of gold?
Could a needle stitch a quilt of sorrow?
Or keep our love from growing old?
Shallow Feb 2018
Don't have pity on me
Just because I may not be as beautiful as they
Or as smart
Or as talented

Or have as many friends
Or as much money

Or that my anxiety kicks in around them
Or that I wish to hide forever

Or that my words are shallow and forgotten
Or that my voice is drowned out in a sea of strangers
And that I can't find myself anymore

But don't have pity on me
Because even though I am broken
And my lips sing the sweet sound of blasphemy
There remains one voice in the back of my mind

Determination.
Shallow Nov 2019
Still I am here, confined in my prison of eroded leather and rusted coils.
Oceans of yellow-gray fur glisten lifelessly around my tired, time-soaken feet.
More shining dust leaps out per every passing moment, as if reaching for freedom, only to find itself grounded in a muddled swamp of suicide.  
Such is its existence.  
Such is mine.  I know very little about the time I spent before Qualm.  
Such memories are forgotten.  
Then again, some memories are best left forgotten.

In this room, time itself fades.
It is a vault of dust, of which I will soon become.  
The dust waves to me sometimes.  
It swirls and scatters and dances in victory before it dooms itself to the inevitable.  
Alas, it seems gravity prefers a yellow-brown carpet.  
The drapes too.  
It seems I have forgotten the last time the carpet matched the drapes.  

There’s one window.  
I know not what lies on the outside of it.  
It is a place I don’t deem worthy.
For what purpose does dust serve outside of these prison walls?  

The Boy comes every so often.
Not that time matters.
The clock-face has frowned and judged me as long as I remember.  Its broken hand beats back and forth as if it were some melancholic metronome.  
The pounding heartbeat of the clock is halted only by The Boy.  He is quite a curious boy.  
He doesn’t seem to age, though perhaps it hasn’t been quite long enough to tell.
Or perhaps it is I who has simply forgotten what aging looks like.

The Boy tells me tales of love, of a girl he has found.  
He spoils her.  
I once had a boy like him, but through my tranquil insanity, it seems he I have forgotten.
I once held him, though.  
He was but a small child.  
A smooth, softly crowned head that radiated possibility.  
Yes, The Boy reminds me of mine own blood-kin.  
If Mine Own had lived to see him, what would he say?

I have not a name for myself.  
I have long forgotten how to string letters together and what a sentence looks like.  
The Boy knows, though.  For as long as I have seen him (which of course I know not), he has called me by a name that I have long forgotten the meaning of.  
The Boy is curious, indeed.
The name he gives me is not the name as what they call me.
It is warm, and sings of a tranquil flame and soft bed of which I have long forgotten.
It is like a firefly of emotion in my corroded universe.  
The Boy’s handiwork is miraculous, I do say.  
The needle with which The Boy stitches letters is of ivory bane, and the thread of luminescent gold.

The Boy is clever.  
He tells me tales of brains.  
Long ago (or perhaps within the hour) The Boy would tell me of studies.
He would read me stories of glistening raindrops and heaven-bound sunflowers from a glossy green textbook, and would ask of me how numbers collided and combined.  
I would take his hand.  
It was soft.
It was warm.
It reminded me of my own blood-kin.  
What would Mine Own’s hand look like if he could come to see The Boy?  
It seems I have forgotten when The Boy’s ******* questions ended.  
Why did they stop?  
Why were there columns of water falling from his cheeks?  
Columns that supported none but a weary neck of childish ignorance.
Columns that were polished by sandpaper.  
Columns that gleamed with a lifeless luster.  
Columns that were silent, yet spoke of nothing but demise.

The Boy no longer tells me tales of brains.  
It seems I have forgotten the stories of mournful raindrops and hellbent sunflowers from the faded green textbook.  
He tells me tales of sorrows of a boy of an all-too familiar name.  
Of a boy who reminds me of Mine Own.  
No, in fact, The Boy says nothing.  
It is his columns that sing of Diego’s caterwaul.

For what does The Boy mourn?
Is it not his studies?  
Is it not his plentiful future?  
The Boy has but nothing to mourn.  
He touched my hand, I remember, and apologized (for some event I have seem to forgotten) through merciful cries and heart-wrenching sobs.  
My hand.  
My time-soaken hand, worn from years of labor at the needle.  
His hand is calloused.  
Was there a time where The Boy held the same hands as mine own blood-kin?
Did they ever stare each other in the eye and wonder, "How would God see me?"
I fear I must have misspoken, for when I mentioned this to The Boy, he fell.  
With an eloquent shame The Boy stitched the most beautifully morbid quilt of words.  
His voice echoed hymns of remorse within me.  
The Boy mourned.  
But for what?
Is it not his own tears that collide with the yellow-gray dust?  
Is it not he that stands with a prideful cowardice above me, judging me with the same heartbroken eyes as the metronome clock-face?  
In fact, could it not be The Boy whose ashen tears litter this corroded floorboard?  
Could it be my own?  
For what am I mourning?  
The clock-face grants me an apathetic stare, or perhaps it is The Boy.  
Could it possibly be The Boy whom I am mourning?
For if it is not him, then where have I come from?
Shallow Feb 2018
Times are:
He wishes upon no change
For the clock to turn its face
So lips do as those do who dare to be silent
So hands do as those do who dare to be still

As he can stop none of inevitable,
As he mourns of predestined strings,
As a marionette stands alone,
He too stands alone.
You are never alone. // Nunca estás solo.
Shallow Feb 2018
For what does the hummingbird weep?
For the lost and forsaken souls?
For the trepidation of mortals?
For the embers of brisk passion?
For the lashes of the night warden's whip?
For the eternal brace of hurt?
For the rantings of a madman?

Or is what the hummingbird weeps for not of this nature?
Could it be that the nature is of a nature from which nature's motherly embrace accepts?

Could the hummingbird weep for the mild tranquility of said mother's embrace?
Or for the warm glow of a homely flame?
Or for the amber shine of dancing stones?
Or for the soft brush of lovers' lips?
Or for the faint cry of a newborn in the arms of such lovers?
Or for the quiet persistence of solidarity?
Or for the peace of acquainting serenity?

Truly, the gentle tears of the hummingbird
Are born of a passion true to mine own
For these gentle tears of the hummingbird
Are the same as the trails of ink that roll off my page
You are never alone. / Nunca estás solo.
Shallow Feb 2018
Run freely again
Nevermore bound, with last breath
A necklace of rope
Everyone deserves to live their best life and to have the support of friends and family.  If you know anyone who is struggling to find themselves or is lost please get help. // Todos merecen vivir su mejor vida y contar con el apoyo de amigos y familiares. Si conoces a alguien que está luchandose por encontrarse o se pierde, busca ayuda.
Shallow Feb 2018
I don't think you understand
Where it is I'm coming from

Im not doing this for an English grade
If i was I'd have perfect grammar
im not doing this for you
If i was i'd put more heart into my words
i'd make you feel something
pathos
logos
ethos

no
im not doing it for you
or for him
or for anyone else

i do it for me
i write for me
im selfish
i keep my words for myself
i keep my words close to me
so only i can feel their meaning

so no
at the end of the day
i dont care if you feel any of my words
i dont care if you detest them
because they arent for you
they are for me

so no
at the end of the day
i dont think you understand.
If it was for English, I'd be flawless. If it was for you, I'd write with heart. because it is for me i write as i choose to
Shallow Nov 2019
When showtime comes the curtain will rise
You'll prepare your face with cold blue eyes
Together you're here
With the quiet and queer
And then you'll sing your own demise
ROMEO AND JULIET
Shallow Feb 2018
A single slat of a broken white picket fence
Where the paint is old and faded
And peeling
But it reminds me of him
And the time we spent together in the garden
Growing our family tree

A single frame of an abandoned photo gallery
Where the glass is cracked and dust-caked
And forsaken
But it reminds me of him
And the life we spent together before he was shipped off
Caring for our family tree

A single grave of a mass of forgotten soldiers
Where their names are etched in stone
And left
But it reminds me of him
And the lives he spared at the cost of his own
Saving our family tree
thank you // muchas gracias
Shallow Feb 2018
This unspoken vow-
To be intercepted as,
To be an illogical manner,
For an illogical manner,
As those with this manner so,
Illogical-unforgettable
But as fate commands
And as mandated by God's breath
To speak this final breath
And tell- with- final- breath-
The once-forgotten breath of a goodbye
For my friend of the summer who moved away and shall I never see her again, at least can I hear her say good-bye? // Para mi amiga del verano que se mudó y nunca más volveré a verla ¿pero puedo oírla decir adiós?
Shallow Feb 2018
I once believed in a principle.
That loss gave birth to something new

I once believed in the dark.
And that from the dark comes the light
And light prevails, as I prevail
But then why does the darkness return?
But if the light has foresaken me then
Has the light forsaken me?
Why have you forsaken me?

I once believed in the light.
But the light failed me.
The light gave birth to the flames
The flames of my tragedy
I hate the light.
It left me here in this dark room.

I once tried to find the light in this room,
But they have all been unplugged.
You are never alone. // Nunca estás solo.
Shallow Oct 2022
Your flag
Your pride
Your accent and voice
The way you dress
The way you greet others
Your money

Your hair
Your face
Your tongue and the language it speaks
How you trip over words
Of a language which isn’t yours

Assimilate.
But not too much
We already know your name
And your story
All by one look
All before you’re granted a chance to speak

Our children will stare at the gringa who passes
Whose tongue flicks with an anglicized mark
And crowds will glare with eyes of disgust
And shield our children from the alien before us

But we will also stop you in our streets to speak with you
But not because we care what you have to say
Rather because we want to practice your language
And make it ours
So we may criticize you in a way you’ll understand

But you’re here to study
And here to learn
And we want your money but not you in our schools
You take classes with your own kind
And speak with your own kind
And suffer with your own kind

We try to keep you all contained.

You can try to speak Castellano
Or learn how we think
But it doesn’t matter what you do
Every action is already explained
By the fact you’re a foreigner.

Where do you come from?
You couldn’t tell she’s American
By her flag, her pride, her accent and voice?
Your country seems like a different planet
Are you sure you came by plane?

Alien.
Are you an alien person?
But it isn’t a question of your place of origin
It is of your humanity.
Are you an alien person?

Foreign,
Foreign,
Foreigner.

Your name is too American
Write it like this.
Never mind that, it is too hard to say.
Here is a new one.
You only have one surname.
What did you do to disgrace your mother?

Come observe a new culture, never participating.
But we will observe you from across the Atlantic.
And your semi-barbaric ways
Because we know if the choice was ours
We’d house the lady
And you the tiger.

Come to our country where we may serve you poisoned fruit
And send you to our prison-hospitals
Where you will stay in your cell until yellow swims around your ankles
And you cry loud enough to be an annoyance
And when your bill arrives, te haremos confundido por Castellano
Never offering you el lujo a entender
Never offering ni paz ni amistad.

But you chose to come here
You cannot be surprised to you pay thousands to clean your blood off our floors
When you chose to spread your enslavement and war.
You are all so violent to spill so much blood
So barbaric.

Who will believe you if you say you don’t fight?
We see the news of you failing to protect your children
And how Oedipus permeates your state of mind
And the permanence of a confederacy keen on killing Kenyans
You walk your streets ready to spill your brother’s blood
And the blood of a million foreigners as you have done before

You circumcise your sons the moment they cry
And just stop there?
Why not cut off the rest
So your kind may never reproduce?
And your brother may live in awe of you

But we never enslaved nor conquered
Nor cut the hands or feet of any right-doer
Nor colonized, evangelized, or spoke a wrong word
We stayed neutral in war, fighting civil for the civil
Our history is filled with the taste of sweet sugar
Curated by the hands of people who adored us
Violence is all too western
And by that we mean American.

You chose to abandon your land
To study here
And to learn here
To hunt for our money and spend it on alcohol
So you may drunkenly stumble with your own kind
And speak with your own kind
And suffer with your own kind
And play the most dangerous game

A gamble with your money
A gamble with the law
A gamble with your freedom
All contained in a troublesome roulette

Because here the game is always rigged against you.

You are giants
Coarse, crude, and caustic
Who infect every perfect thing you touch
Turning our fine shores to gravel lots
Spitting oil in our seas
And turning our precious wine to water
All for the sake of bettering your newborn nation
Which ***** on the *** of its European predecessors

Wipe your streets with the blood of your children
And the blood of your women
And the blood of every barbarian who dares to hold a gun in the name of freedom
And there will be no one left to sing your anthem

We will eat you and your country alive
And burn your body among our forgotten tyranny
With the victims of our cultural dictatorship
And your country will pay no mind
And your death will be not so much as tragedy as a mere statistic.

Because to you it is life and death.
But to us it is a bet
How long will the gringa last?
Before xenophobia eats her alive
And her last words fall victim to a false deafness
Because this language should not be hers?

Yes, this is a ballad to your loss
The coming of a new era
When the gringa hangs on her cross
With the ashes of white and blue behind her
As her blood spills red
And she looks up to the stars
As her guts spill out
Striped with the acid of her nation

And we will watch as she sells her guts to afford her surgeon
In that country which pays her no mind
In that country which sees her as meat to be hunted
In that country which plays the most dangerous game
In her country who wins the most dangerous game
In her country who saved her life
In her country who she calls home
In her country who wants her home.

And she will cry waving her bloodied flag
Screaming “I’m American!”
Because her heart lies in her imperfect land
In her imperfect home
With her imperfect people
And she has an unfathomable love for her flag
Stained with the blood of a million foreigners.
A commentary on my personal experience with Spanish xenophobia

— The End —