Its been 4 years since I’ve painted my nails. Before that it was a year. And I think of every time during the 4 years my Mom asked me “Why don’t you paint your nails?” and I knew the answer but wouldn’t say shit. I think of all the sadness inside of me. I think of the past few years, where I just stopped caring. Where the sadness swallowed me whole and I learned to live with the darkness that served me. Where no one asked questions, just allowed me the space to breathe. And I can’t help but remember that time in his bed where my painted nails dragged his skin. How I would cup his face in my hands and let my fingers move from his face to neck, and how fucking lucky I felt. I think of those painted nails, in and out of love. I think of those painted nails, through depths of sadness. And I think of those nails as I see them now, full of light and color. Why did I stop painting my nails? Why did I stop caring about myself? Why did I let bullshit men dictate how I feel about myself? When I know I shouldn’t. But I was fucking sad for a long time. So fucking, fucking sad.
Sweet voice. Glittered sunshine at a quarter to 7. Bottle rests softly on my lips. Slow drags of my cigarette. Memories I should forget. Sitting on the brick steps. April heat, sun kissed brown skin. Softly exhaling through tear soaked rain storms that dried in spring. Another drink, sweet wine. Blood of memories. Carry me through the breeze. Golden hour orange skies. The last drag of my cigarette and with these lips another taste of sweet wine. There will never be another you. And the wine will never be this sweet.
Azul, verde, y negro–Colors of a color block dress washed clean, hanging on the clothing line. I watch as the stories form in the stitches of the dress. Between the aroma of Suavitel y sol. A reminder of a past with a line dried to the future. I watch the dress hang in the sunshine for weeks. Clean. Dried. Waiting to be born again in the present. As I see stories of my past, dance around the dress, watching how the memories hold in the fabric. Drinks on rooftops, kissing strangers, dancing under moonlit skies, and waking up into sobering white sheets. The dress that I once loved, that I stopped wearing after I moved back home. I watch as my dress hangs there. A present line between the past and the future. Waiting. A talisman to my past, and I am afraid to let go.
It’s 6 AM. The only sounds on my street are the street sweeper and a lonely rooster from our neighbor’s yard. It’s quiet in the mornings now. Before the birds start chirping, before our neighbor screams “Callate” to the rooster, before life begins. It’s in this silence that I think of mornings in la Ciudad de Mexico. Bells chiming for la basura, el grito del gas, the shuffling of feet down the hill —our morning street serenade. How sounds become songs when you miss things. Sounds I forget once life awakens. The chaos of La Capital. The taxis and peseros honking their horns in salutation. As the sweet Señoras with their brightly colored delantales, sell tamales and atole in the carretera. A snapshot in time that seems like a distant memory. I try not to think of the empty streets and lonely parking lots, I see before me. Or the silent cries of worry at home. Things we don’t speak about with our silent tongues and washed hands. While fear has taken a permanent place in my heart. I try to fill this silence with memories of La Capital. The candatitos of a city that feels more like home then home does. As I watch sunlight fight through the cracks of my blinds, I lay here with my covers held tight. Here in my 6 am silence.
March 20, 2020
Destiny of the dead. Caged between the past and present. I watch ghosts stretch their hands to reach me, and I do not shiver. I watch the tracks it leaves, asking me to follow. I don’t. The past holds pain of different numbers. And we are back at one. Living, breathing, as I watch ash turn to dust. Watching the veils of the past leave on foot toward the future. And now the ghosts want to be familiar, and stand with arms outstretched, meeting on different astral planes. I can’t. Maybe, I am a fool that still hurts with tiny scars of phantom cuts down my back. I easily forgive, I don’t forget. I watch people of my past become ghosts. Wishing to haunt me once more. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t forget.
We talk to Gods when we are at a crossroads. Asking to the vacant blue skies, where our feet should plant next. I light a vela at 11 pm; when the skies become dark, and open doors to rooms I haven’t placed my feet in. Watching the flame dance in golden rays—colors of the sun, set against the dark blue skies. I make use of false prophets predictions to line my journey. Light the path, watch the flame stay silent and rising with the words I speak out loud. Asking questions to the flame and watching as the smoke curves to show the road I have ahead. Where I know the answer before the magic ends. Before the smoke is smudged. Where the answers follow me in sleep, and I follow the roads in dreams. And still, I write my name within the wax. Trace the road printed on the candle. Say my final thoughts and express my tongue in gratitude. Watching my wishes filter through the smoke, and my answers revealed in dreams. The road opens as my foot touches the pavement. Prophecies fulfilled. “Abre camino”, I say in dreams. Open road.
Before she passed, Mimicha would dream of water. I often wonder if I have inherited her dreams. Her visions. As I dream of oceans and storms, and a crack of light that roars into the sky. How the day she left us the skies broke and the storm carried her soul to the promiseland. While we watched her body carried down the stairs for the last time; into the storm and under thunder lit skies. I dream of oceans too often not to notice. Dreaming of pueblitos I have never visited before, with their flat concrete roofs and jardins. Dreaming of people who do not belong to me; people who visit me in dreams as if they had always been there. Dreams of ocean blue waves facing storms that part the skies; and I watch how the colors of my dreams remain in the colors of that day. Where I didn’t pack black. Where my sweater was as gray as the skies when she passed. Where the rains stopped after we buried her. As the sun illuminated each of our broken hearts. As my Tia screamed “Viva Mimicha” into the sky. Each of us placing a white rose on her grave. The sleepless nights that followed where only the ocean could soothe me. Where I craved oceans in winter. Why my tears bled and burned of salt water. Why the year after her passing, I placed my feet in the sand and cried. Why I couldn’t let her go. Even though I knew I should. How slowly I see the messages written in the sand. I see the storms lift in my dreams, and the calm ocean waves in front of me. As I breathe in salt water air. Watching the ocean take the relics of my grief from the sand. Never looking back in dreams. Keep my head straight on the horizon–and it’s then I see her. It’s then I know she sees me too.
“How do you know that song?”
An old song.
Transcending time and space.
Speaking of love.
Years between the spaces.
How do you know?
Play the song.
Sway your hands to the sweet melody.
Remember loves lost.
Lyrics echoing your sentiments.
A song you whistle beneath the moonlight.
“Tanto tiempo disfrutamos de este amor”
Canto a la Luna
Sweet, sweet cantadito.
I sing with a smile.
Sabor a mi
2 years and 14 days.
My sobriety shines like a scarlet letter.
a thousand drunken obscenities,
to a thousand sobered apologies.
I miss that mile a minute rush of slurring words behind my teeth.
Words no one understood but me.
Spoken tongues wrapped in gin and juice.
All that’s left is faded cigarette burns.
Faded scars and a broken heart
They say “it gets better”.
But the lonely come calling at morning break
And I just want to drink it away
make it all
even you / can’t take away this light / dark clouded nights / break way for light / shine, shine / clear as day / night skies break away / for sun shined mornings / if you only knew / could you see / dark matter makes way for the shine / turn your head away / go your own way / leave me in the sunshine / shine, shine / away