You know it, and you know it well.
Do I really have to say it? Hell.
I'll get straight to the point;
I am the obvious choice.
You can’t shake me, I’m your joint;
before you sleep, I’m that little voice.
Do you really have others anyway?
And if you do, are there really
better options, by the way?
Are there any other poems on your desk?
And if there are, are they actually
sent and written by the best?
So do I really have to say it?
You already know it.
No matter the language,
the truth simply drips from your lips.
You can’t escape me, I’m your missing rib;
before you go, kiss me as you pull my hips.
I’m the wave that rips.
I’m the edge of the cliff.
I’m the winning manuscript.
You know it, and you know it well.

De enero a junio a diciembre,
no hay clima que no quiera volver.
Este año se sintió como una puta pistola,
sintió como una telenovela.
Monté a caballo, tuve accidentes,
besé cabrones, morí mil muertes.
Monté olas y quedé atrapado bajo el agua.
probé amapolas y desperté en Nicaragua.
Desde el verano hasta el invierno,
no hay mes que me haga decir “¡Lo probando!”
Este año es simplemente el peor,
Lleno de error pero también lleno de color.
Pero volveré a montar,
como el mejor vaquero y rejoneador.
Pero lo volveré a hacer,
como el mejor torero y matador.
Moriré otra vez y viviré otra y otra vez,
como la protagonista de una telenovela.
Podría hacer esto una y otra vez,
como una puta telenovela!

Am I naughty or am I nice?
An angel or a *****?
Will I be your victory or vice?
A cherub or a siren?
Am I a dream come true or the color blue?
Am I a gift or a piece of wood adrift?
And if I make a wish, would it be for you?
Would I be the fundamental keys, like Ctrl+Shift?
And if I set the tone, will you follow through?
Would I be a letter you'll burn or a masterpiece you'll keep?
And if we see this through, to whom do we say thanks to?

I am the earth.
I seek the sea,
occupy the ocean,
wish for the water.
While you,
yearn for the earth,
lead the lands,
savour the soil.
I am the earth
And I wish for you.
I wish for you.
I’ve been wishing for you...

I’m not in school anymore
No longer a girl either.
So this is not some schoolgirl crush.
And I don’t need more soul lessons.
And I am not one to do crushes.
In fact, I want soul-crushing romance.
And I think this is it.
Except it’s not.
Not a romance.
But it’s soul-crushing.
But if I must be,
I will be a student.
If I really have to,
I will learn.
I will write.
I will read.
Again
and again.

I’m running out of metaphors.
In that sense, ‘metaphors’ is a metaphor
for your time, not mine.
And you’re running out of good years.
In that sense, ‘good years’ is a metaphor
for your options, also not mine.
I wanted to be the one to make you happy,
I wanted you to be the subject of my poetry.
But what else can a woman like me do?
I am a little girl in front of a man like you.
What gift do you get a guy
who seem to have it all?
Where do you take a man
who’s been everywhere?
What song can you sing
to someone who’s heard every sound?
What else can you give
to somebody who’s done it all?
What poem can I write for you,
that will make you want to choose me?
And what can you do to impress
a person who’s been with everyone?

Silence.
Nowhere.
Static.
Nothing.
Blank page.
Radio silence.

“𝑺𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆,
𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒆?”
But what does Santa know, though?
I bet on a reindeer even you don’t know.
All year, Santa was hiding in North Pole,
at the same time, I’m hiding my feelings;
what used to be a heart here is now a hole.
January is a beach, December is a cliff.
If the sands would turn to snow,
mountains from Pacific Ocean would grow.

“𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘,
𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕”
But what do I also know?
I dare the trees to be still as the wind blows.
Tropical the whole year, now I feel frozen,
when exactly is the most wonderful time?
Like a prized painting, my heart felt stolen.
My poetry is confessional, for truth is crime.
If you are made of blazing flames,
I am a forest catching fire after fire.