There must be something unseen
woven into your very being.
What else could explain
how, with so much weight,
you still move with such grace?
Like a weightless ballerina on her toes,
dancing across splintering boards,
running amok on the stage—
untouched, unbroken-
At peace

Three cheers for broken things!
Those who god rapes
and what the cat brings
inside causing screams. The last laugh.
Reduced to a shocking object;
denied personal being, a personal hell,
alone, touched by shadows.
All shadows imply light.
Torture of existence transforms to bliss.
Taken request, now give it a kiss.
See and be seen.
Be vulnerable, be keen to love the ugly.
Cringing dancing singing -
Obscene wisdom, divine pain:
Dominion of fate.
Tainted blood yet the soul won't stain.

I feel at home at Taco Bell, as the cuisine
echoes the worst of my mom’s cooking:
cheese that tastes like beans,
beans that taste like rice,  
rice that tastes like flour.

It’s where I go when I am missing someone,
usually near their Jesus’ hour, between
the last sip of a lunch hour Pepsi
and the first after school Cinnabon
Delights clutched and munched
in little fingers.

I'll lean in whenever a raven haired Circe
at a corner table, resembling Sabrena—
that witch who first broke my heart—
casts a disdainful glance my way.

They’ll tug at the corners of their
bad girl leather jacket, gather
their familiar charms, and
shoot me a bird as
they vanish in
the smoke of
memory.

And then, on some evenings, customers
with my mother’s laugh will walk in
and then out, their arms cradling
grease-slicked terracotta bags,
sacred relics in the
fluorescence.

The smell of cheap tacos in brittle shells
filled with Hamburger Helper,
gummy cheese, old lettuce,
canned diced tomatoes-
that heavenly mess
masquerading as
a meal would
pull me back  
to her
cocina.    

In the haze of the Taco Bell fryers, the grease
sings of her failures and resilience.  Like her,
I would smile through it all—always
apologizing yet always trying—
in the end,  scraping meat
off chipped plates

remembering my mother’s taco shells and
refusing to wipe away the grease,
letting it linger an echo of
loves imperfect folds.

When the earth is no longer a womb,
just a shriek and whistle of once uttered prayer—
a long,
puncturing howl of everything
that was once you
turned into casualties of silence,
then you know
that death has arrived,
noiselessly,
silent as a missile.

All the clamor outside-
it’s the hibakujumoku,
(the survivor trees)
insisting on life
within the blast radius
of your heart.

I’ve lost count—
was it the fourth winter or the seventh spring
when the silence curled too tightly around my ribs,
and I mistook it for peace?
When the night stopped being a comfort
and started swallowing me whole?

I’ve lost count—
of how many times I’ve stood at the edge of the thought,
toe curling over the ledge,
heartbeat whispering, ”this time, maybe.”
Of how often I’ve written letters I never mailed,
just to prove to myself I was still worth a goodbye.

There were nights I rehearsed my exit
like a prayer no one would answer—
softly, solemnly,
just in case the universe was listening.

I’ve forgotten the shape of my first goodbye,
but I remember the echo—
how it rang in my bones long after the moment passed,
how it became a second heartbeat,
steady and hollow.

How many bottles did I uncap,
not to swallow,
but to measure the weight of the idea in my palm?
How many bridges did I cross,
wondering if the wind would take mercy
and push me before I had to decide?

I’ve counted calendar days like scars,
tallied time in tear-salted pillowcases,
marked milestones not by celebration,
but by survival.

There’s a number for everything—
beats per minute, breaths per hour,
how long it takes for a wound to scab,
how many milligrams it takes to numb a scream—
but there is no metric
for how many times a soul tries to disappear.

People ask why I’m so tired.
I smile,
because how do you explain
what it means to dig yourself out of your own grave
again and again
with bare, trembling hands?

But still—
I wake up.
Not always because I want to.
Sometimes just because I didn’t succeed.

And yet—
I’m still here.
Tired, yes.
Heavy with ghosts I haven’t named.
But here.

And that has to count for something.

Today, I want to speak to you,
my brother.

You who are feeling down,
who life is hitting hard.

You who feel alone,
or have a broken heart.

Maybe you've been left for someone else,
or what you're searching for hasn’t been found.

She didn’t deserve you,
and what you're looking for is just around the corner.

You’re not alone,
there are many of us,
with the same thought.

The thought of ending this,
and ending the suffering.

But through all the bad,
there’s always a brother.

A brother with a big ear,
to listen,
to what is resonating
inside of you.

I want you to know that you are strong,
and that I love you.

This is just a fall in life,
and soon you’ll tell it,
as something overcome.
I want you to know that we are many in your situation,
and we haven’t given up.

This battle is ours,
and we are winning it.

Don’t drop your hands,
you are worth a lot,
this is just a delay.

We will all get through this together,
and we will come out strong.

The burdens of today,
are the wings of freedom,
for tomorrow.

If you’re feeling bad,
just talk to me.

Seasons come and go
like seas' uneven breathing,
deeply heaving.

High tidal breeze,
swells rise,
seizing;
lunar lock and keys hide
sleeping,
dreaming.

Full feelings
meet beaches
easily steaming,
waves crash breakwall,
mist smoke screening.

Then new sliver
smiles, teasing,
moon's silver filigree
grins sharp, gleaming;
shallow reefs peeking,
watery weeds,
wrists reaching feebly.

Dreary ceiling
and lighthouse
beacon needed
to cleave through these evenings
of nightmares creeping.

Heart darkened
by legions teeming
with evil heathens
and devils, demons,
towering behemoth
war machines ceaseless,
stampedes succeeding;
peacekeeper unseated,
depressive diseases breeding,
thieving and depleting reason,
leeching,
treasonous lesions bleeding;
feeding on weaknesses
eaten.

Meanwhile
free man
cartesian mapping
Elysian regions,
feet and knees freezing-
insomnia's silence screaming,
no egress,
yet adamantine,
unheeding,
eager to only
keep own legs
still leading,
each step meets concrete
through bleakness,
seeking bright beam's
lamplit sweeping
serene for me but
heat seething
these cretins
like a bee sting.

Dawn relinquishes,
shadows fleeing
back to the steepest peaks,
creatures beaten,
receding
as sun climbs east
egregiously defeating,
signing tomorrow's treaty agreement
before besiege on eden repeating.

Thrown into a space,
dark, frivolous, and suffocating,
sealed, with air
stale and unrenewable.

With every second that passes,
the feeling of exhaustion
pulses and oppresses,
with contractions of despair.

I despair. In a burst of energy,
I hurl myself against some exit,
invisible, intangible.

Waves and sharp surges
of despair overwhelm me,
flooding my soul—
restless and energetic,
tired and drained.

I seek, restless, to find
some way out of this place.

But stone walls
only echo my scream.

The futility of my attempts
corrodes my hope,
but a tiny crevice
opens in one of the walls,
pierced by the light.

It rekindles what remains,
killing despair -
partially.