You Are Weird

This poem has no end. It is not pretending to know what happens next. This poem is tired and sick. This poem did not want me to write it yet, but I thought this poem would help someone and maybe then, this poem would help itself. This poem doesn’t want to grow up. This poem doesn’t need to slow down. This poem is laughing as much as all the other poems are laughing. At night, this poem whispers to itself. This poem has secrets. This poem is trying to tell you a story but it keeps getting distracted. This poem wants to focus but look at the rain, look at the children, look at the dogs. Isn’t it a wonderful life? If this poem tells you about its wonderful life, is this poem lying? Do you think that this poem owes you anything, at the cost of everything? That it should strip down to its last line already? That it should, under all circumstances, tell you the truth?

You are always hungry / and you do not know why, eating the inside / of your heart, ashamed that something that is supposed / to keep you alive tastes so soft.

I can’t get out of this poem / it’s Your poem / you’re making me make it this way / it’s us, this poem is alive / even if it’s ugly or I’m dead / it’s the City of You even if you aren’t “in it”.

Amaría por las mañanas hacerte café y luego hacerte el amor.

I want love to be simple. I want to trust without thinking. I want to be generous with my affection and patience and love unconditionally. It is easier to love a person with their flaws than to weed through them. I want to love the whole person, not parts; and this is how I want to be loved.