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Hers Was a Face That I Had Never Known.

Hers was a face that I had never known.  She was in my life already, yet so quiet and small that I never picked her out in the crowd.

Then, after, it was as though she was following me – or maybe I followed her and never knew. But suddenly, this figment appeared everyday: crossing the street in the rain, touching her fingertips to her forehead behind a glass plane, big eyes at the sink. I wondered if she knew who I was or somehow recognized me in the way that I now could recall her.

It happened during a time that we agreed to be simple. Commitment felt heavy only in the way it does for those made to be alone, but fearful of loneliness. I was still living with my partner at the time (although both had acknowledged that it was over) and he was still holding his torches. Although he was willing to breath heavy in my ear, and I to give him names “Puppy”, neither one of us were willing to celebrate obligation to the other.

This was the first time I told myself that I would never speak to him again. It stands out in my mind more so because of her – this ghost who became an active presence in my life. I see similarities between our faces unwillingly. Not that we look anything alike. Not like we ever would.

Yet, neither one of us have an easy smile, which can make strangers look like sisters. Then when the smiles do come it’s no relief: mine still somehow stern and hers toothy and nervous.

I felt bad for the girl after mourning myself. Certainly no virgin, but still young and certainly drunk – an open mouth in the haze. He left her alone in the middle of the night to go sleep in his car, while I clung to the body of someone else. I can imagine her skinny bruised legs, her stillness beneath him – almost holding her breath.  Where could she look?

He told me later, after I finished crying (when I had to speak to him, after no talking, no looking for days) that he didn’t cum and the night wasn’t the passion-filled fuck-fest that I had imagined. Of course not, but still, as though his ejaculation would be the only thing that would solidify the betrayal – I wasn’t able to shake her nightmare clinging to my sadness.

I wish that it changed the experience of seeing her. Some days I wish I could tell her that I know: chide her inadequacies. But mostly I want her to cry; I want to cry with her – for being fools, because this is what women know: we’re fools for another.


remember the time you took me to the waterfront and we laid down under the gazebo? it was one of those times when we knew it was over but we wanted to make it nice. we were still trying to make memories of happy times even though we knew it was going to end. i remember, i dont think you do. it was late and it was sunday, you were leaving the next day and we always had this urge to make the last night special. I also remember i said something that made you mad and i knew it would make you mad and i said it anyways thats just what I did. then you said something nice and sweet about the future, you knew it wasn’t true as the words were coming out of your mouth, and i knew you didn’t mean it, but i believed it anyways, just because it was so nice and sweet and i wanted to believe it. i wanted to think it was true; that we would go back to that gazebo, that we would lay there again. you and me, me and you under the same stars, being as happy as we were that night. its easy to lie, its hard to believe. good thing we are good at both. words are fragments of moments and moments are fragments of memories. take any out of context and theres chaos. chaos is what we have now. The entropy of the universe tends to a maximum.

Desearía poder abrazarte hoy.

Se ha ido,
se ha ido,
se ha ido.

a sheet covered your face

I was surprised by the look in her eyes. Big and blue and covered by a sheet, all I could see were those eyes. Were, where, we’re, I told her I wouldn’t mess those up. Though I never get the chance to because I can’t tell if it matters.

Lazy Hunter

I’ll sneak into your room at night.


When you sleep your neck arches back and your mouth is ajar.  It’s like you’re yelling or praying or coming.  I’ll have to stop myself from touching that lucky tooth.
Don’t wanna wake you – So I’ll just undress myself,

I know how to do these things, know how to draw the shades.
I just want to sit on your body and blow smoke at the ceiling. Let the spirit linger.

You thought that there was a ghost in your room, but it was just the smell of the basement seeping into your floor and
when you yell
so do your cats
and when I yell
it’s always so quiet.

I like the idea of your fingertips, my lips. Just another lazy hunter.


It went kablam, and bounced back in my hands. The vibrations hurt my fingers but not nearly as much as his skull.

I can’t have the night come, but shit it likes to find me.

It knows who I am, it knows what I like, breaking them blood vessels, curling my fingers back.  I keep opening the shade hoping the light gonna expose me, but it doesn’t and in this brooding way the gray always turns to black.

Last night I went a-walking. Walking through them trees with their hands just slapping me in the face.  Whispering in my ear, they told me keep walking pretty lady, you’re walking the right way. There was a ghost coming out, been thickening my skin.

And suddenly the road opened and I was in a clearing, just a dead end – the tepid orange glow of the streetlamp.  He was standing there just waiting for me, with hair mat down and flash-light eyes.

Couldn’t run, couldn’t do shit.

Nobody told me there were coyotes in the tropics. 



What is Happening to Her. Being one’s own subject.

Hard breath and oven heat.  We were in the shipyards, the docks, the industry. The taste was nostalgic, like when she was young, touching boys in the garage.  He laid his head down flat and she saw the winking light in the yard. Denial.

Busted lip.  Anger.

There’s two memories.  A man chases her through the parking garage. Fucking Cunt! He’s so close, ready to grab her hair. And, then I’m twelve again. The boy from summer camp takes off his shirt and it’s like I’ve never seen a man’s back before. Don’t you wanna look at me, again? Bargaining.

Dear father, forgive me, for I have found terms that are not my own. Two men drink beers in the back room, and she pulls the strings through her body. They start at her fingertips, but weave through her shoulders and hold her mouth hostage. It reminds her of yarn. Depression.

It makes me alone, again. Acceptance.

He wore old spice. I never liked it, I knew he did. To me it smelled like something trying to cover something else up. Kind of like he was. His actions were mostly born out of guilt, like he did something bad and had to cover it up with something nice. But like the old spice the nice actions, the flowers, the presents, the gestures, did not completely covered the other scent, the odor, the odor of guilt. I loved it when he brought me flowers, but soon enough I learned what flower really meant. I learned what kisses really meant. And then I hated his kisses and I hated his flowers, I hated his presents. 

But then, there were no more kisses, no more flowers, no more. We were no more. He was no more in relation to me, and I was no more in relation to him. There was still the odor, his and mine and ours, all the flowers were gone but the old spice remain.

one for you,

and this one is for me,

when I walk out I think about you,

when I walk in, about me

you stood there

looking at me

I looked away

Everything in me was telling me to

I dont know why

I never know why

then she walked in

you looking at her looking at me looking at you

And then, only then I remembered why

why i do the things I do

and why you do the things you do