cosas pequeñitas (y largas)

i.

who has a right to speak on these things

she says it doesn’t matter but it seems like it does, marina says

days later you do this, you think

little things that are fine but leave you thinking

about the darkness of your skin 

for days

ii.

for you have met the boundary

of shared experience

like a golden worm 

it vibrates in the puddle in front of you

as you walk through warm water

you know if you touched skin

it would be glass, maybe porcelain

iii.

in bed you think of how

you say 

my father is from the island

why do you not say I am from the island?

vi.

kiley said

one days these things will come for you

red shoes on a green floor

this is about much more

than a name

v.

your name you can hold

it can hold you

at times you embrace awkwardly

but still

there is warmth

you are strangers

who together are not strangers at all

vi.

it is like an avocado

sliced open

each half heavy in a palm

the pit in the middle must be in one side

or you must get rid of it

once open

how can it be in both sides at once? 

and be whole

vii.

it is like an avocado

so sweet

and 

so slimy

you can not hold an avocado for long

soon enough you must eat it

or put it

down

viii.

and you want to put it down

the exhaustion, the pride

of being the core

something you have always been proud of

something you are almost always

thinking about, something that makes

you narcissus

staring at this puddle in between you

with its golden worm

ix.

can you put the golden worm down?

most times you do not want to touch it

if you cut it in half

would it multiply?

it does not seem like your own battle

you are too preoccupied with your own shadows

x.

who has the right to speak on this?

most days (all days)

you don’t know