Restless.
Desperate.
Something inside my mind is turning me into
a wanderer, bitter and distant.
It seems so natural now
to think of myself as homeless.
What comfort is there in the dull articles
I sell to newspapers, trying to earn money
to help the woman I thought of as a mother
for so many years, when all along, Bernarda knew
that my true Mamá
was alive and had no wish
to know me, while the father
I despise
was even
worse.