You think every story is about you.
I understand.
When you are denied yourself you must insert yourself.
You use the tools around you and you make a mess.
You fuck up the drywall.
There’s dust so tiny that it gets into your lungs.
It kills you eventually.
But wasn’t that better than trying to find yourself
in the junkyard of Latinidad? Picking up old
teacups and swearing that you love this cup so much
that it changed your life already, that you’ll sip from it forever?
You will talk breathlessly about your latest fixation
and your friends will shake their legs, wonder when
they can finally check their phones.
And who are your friends, do you think?
And do you believe you are loved?
Tell me, is every party you throw
just to see who would show up at your funeral?
I know; you think I am extreme.
You think I am an accelerationist.
You think I am imbalanced.
You think I need help.
But please,
tell me the name of the person you would die for.
Tell me about your precious career.
Tell me about confessional poetry.
Tell me about how you’ve turned
everyone you’ve ever met into a poem.
You can’t immortalize everybody.
You can’t just bring people back to life.
I killed her, okay.
I killed her just to see myself better.
But what are you doing here,
with your eyes?
She finds the You
shot through the head
or what she thinks is the head—
she can’t really tell.
So long, monster lover.
She feels relieved but sad,
like when a successful
person is hotter than her
or like when her phone dies.
Pero, he was kind of cute, though!
Muscular.
Is it betrayal
if she should have just
known better?
Que tonta, honestly.
Yolanda?
Yolandaaaaa!
Yolanda is gone.