making-mistakes-in-ink

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Mosquitos

I’m swinging from a string hammock

and watch as my father walks barefoot on the cracked tile floor

before taking a seat on a withering plastic chair that is somehow holding his body up.

He swings his button down shirt over his shoulder

and peels the ripe mango in his hand.

Unlike me,

he doesn’t care for the mosquitos that crowd around him

who might pierce with sharp needles into his dark skin for sustenance

because he knows that they won’t feed from him.

It’s as if they knew,

that his blood was bred from the dark soil that the earth provides

and was too sacred to be fed by them.

Unlike him,

they eagerly feed from me

because they know that I do not share that same birth right.

No, I am bred from the concrete on the sidewalk that wraps around my home,

the gravel road beside my window emits the sounds of hefty car engines and police sirens

that are driving in high speeds; one attempting to catch the other.

Mosquitos don’t bother me there,

but being here,

in this hammock strung by strings,

tied to my father’s child home's roof,

I get bit.

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Poseidon

                          “you and i are like the sand and the ocean waves,”

                                                       you told me,

                                             arms caging around me,

                                             locking me into your hold.

                                 i asked why and this was your response:

                                “because you are always swept up by me

                                         whenever i come around you.”

                           i wish i could return your smile when you said this,

                                                tell you it wasn’t true,

                                                  but you were right.

                                                 like water and sand,

                                       you would always rise to the top

                                  while I would always sink to the bottom.

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Poseidon

                                                             I.                                 

                                you told me I was a breath of fresh air

                                           but you weren’t drowning

                                            you were just breathing.  

                                                            I I.

                                              I built a sand castle

                                           for you to come back to

                                                   you returned

                                            took it and left again.

                                                           I I I.

                                            the sun kissed my skin

                                              which you didn’t like

                                      so you made the clouds come

                                                and shut him out.

                                                           I V.

                                        like boats docked on shore

                                            I unwrapped the rope

                                                lifted the anchor

                                          and finally let myself go.

                                                           V.

                                                I returned home

                                where the waves couldn’t reach me

                          I thought this would be the last I saw of you

                                  until you made it rain your tears.

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empalagar

intransitive verb

1. To be too sweet. 

2. To be too sweet that I linger on your lips a second longer. I refuse to let you go. You are empalagante. And though sweetness can be bitter, I don’t taste that with you. You are kissed by the sun, molded by hands that are not my own, the only one of your kind. Tell me how you became this way. Teach me how to be this sweet that you decide to never let me go. I want to learn how to be like you, how to taste like you, how to be sweet like you. Make me empalagante. Make me something that you can’t let go.

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empalagar

intransitive verb

1. To be too sweet.

2. To be too sweet and delicate to touch with the pads of my fingertips hoping to not dissolve your sugar-coated exterior that is kissed by the sun and molded by hands that are not my own. Eres empalagante. You are too sweet on my tongue and I can’t kiss you for long because I can feel the cavities you are inflicting not only inside my mouth but throughout my body. I’m decaying from the inside out. My lungs can no longer expand, my eyes no longer see, my tongue no longer taste... you.  

          a. To be too sweet, my love, is soon becoming too bitter for my taste.

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drunk on love

You no longer seem sweet on my tongue.

No, now you burn

down my throat

cause my eyes to water.

I want to remain sober,

avoid the bottle

marked with your name

that looks, smells, tastes like you.

Yes, I cry.

On most nights

in which I relapse under

the sound of your voice

and the curve of your smile.

We spend the moonlight

together, alone, reminiscing.

But come the next morning,

every part of you is gone.

All that remains is a glass of water I left on the nightstand

and an empty bottle spinning on the floor.

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con amor, I write this

when i’m asked about love

i think of her

and how the warmth of her embrace

is warmer than the pots boiling on the stove

she smells of the spices she’s used

but the overwhelming scent of her favorite perfume

lingers in her dark hair

and reminds me of times within my childhood

the ones were she’s getting ready for work

placing a hairnet to capture

the untamable sea that is her hair

causing her perfume to spread and wake me from sleep

i watch as she places red lipstick on her lips

and i quickly close my eyes

knowing those same lips will soon press

on my forehead to bid me goodbye

it doesn’t settle until now

why breakfasts aren’t as memorable

as her dinners

for my innocent child mind couldn’t see

that the lack of her presence in the mornings

made her coming home at night even sweeter

so when i’m asked about love

i answer,

“food does not bring me to the table,

it’s her.”

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Breath of Fresh Air

you told me I was a breath of fresh air but you weren’t drowning you were just breathing

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Burned

She was fire and I was a dying flame.

Neither ice nor rain could kill her.

She burned the leaves, burned the trees.

She burned a forest in her glee.

She, herself, was a growing storm. Burning things along her path.

And so I was a dying flame, Begging for a flicker of life.

And she came upon me on her path. Took my fire and put it out.

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The Story of Creation

Of all the stories I could tell, she asked me for the most complicated one.

“Tell me the story of Death,” she whispers.

“Death, huh?” I asked with a nervous chuckle that she didn’t notice.

She simply responded with a lazy nod and I took a deep breath as I tried to collect my thoughts.

“Death is the honest one of the two.”

“Two?” she asked innocently.

“Life and Death,” I answered. “One cannot exist with the other.”

A silence grows between us and I let myself hope she’s changed her mind on the matter.

She doesn’t.

“Tell me more,” she prompted.

I let out a deep sigh and closed my eyes.

“Death is the painful truth,” I tell her. “We will all face her sooner or later.”

“Her?” she asked in surprise.

“Her, him, it…” I say with a shrug. “She comes in many forms.”

She hums and settles down once more which is my cue to continue.

“Death is everywhere,” I tell her. “She’s in the darkness of the night, in the light of day, and in all of the moments between. She was there when the world was created and she will be there when it comes to an end.”

I pause, looking down in hope that she’s fallen asleep, but her eyes were wide open and looking up at me to go on.

“She’s patient… too patient,” I explain. “Calm, too.”

At this point, she’s taken notice of the wavering in my voice.

“You’re afraid of her, aren’t you?”

I don’t respond and simply stare ahead.

“What could you possibly fear from her?”

I didn’t want to answer her question, but I knew she deserved to know.

“Because one day she’s going to take you away from me,” I answer quietly.

“Oh,” she whispers settling down in her seat in resignation. “What will happen to you once I’m gone?”

The question had crossed my mind when I started it all, but I never wanted to come up with an answer so I ignored it.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe, I’ll start over again.”

“Will you forget about me?”

“Never, little one,” I tell her. “I will always remember you.”

“Good,” she whispers with relief.

“So…” I trail off. “Do you want to hear more?”

“No,” she answers tiredly. “I’ve heard enough.”

“Then what should we do now?”

She’s silent as she tries to come up with an answer. I watch as her face contorts pensively before it lights up once more.

“Tell me another story.”

“About what?” I ask her.

The answer shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did anyway.

“Tell me the story about Life.”

I let out a resigned sigh and made myself comfortable.

“Life,” I repeat. “Well, Life is a beautiful lie…”