On the plane from San Francisco to Philadelphia


Imade the choice last night
under the light of an Italian restaurant.
Last night, after the rain
on Columbus Street in San Francisco.

I made you a list
of all the things
I wanted to give you,
all the things you never gave me,
all the things we never shared,
and the ones we did,
and had to give back.

The fights we had
over the phone,
the times I almost
broke it off
           (1, 2, 3, 7?)
-every couple of weeks
-every couple of days 
-every single day.

The poems you wrote for me,
about yourself.
The poems you wrote about me,
for everyone else.
The poems you wrote about you
in love with me,
in love with yourself in love.
The poems you wrote,
about the poet in love,
about you,
because it was always about you.

You told me early on
that you were a giver of gifts.
But you only give gifts
when you can admire the way
they look in your hands.

My hands
and your hands
are not the same.

The gifts you gave me;
tiny mirrors
always reflecting back to you.
Nothing that could speak to me.
I could never see my face.

Give your things to someone else, 
they’ll mean the same thing to you. 
Because it doesn’t matter if their hands are big
-or small
-or their fingers are long
-or short
-or thin
-or fat
everything looks the same to you
when you hold it.

You can always re-gift yourself. 
That’s the beauty.

Bare your soul and offer parts of you
no one really asked for.
Bare your soul,
but only show
the parts you want to
show off.
The parts you think make you noble
-or great
-or kind
-or generous.

The parts of you that will make the other person
worship you.
Who are you if nobody
worships you?

I wish I still had your jacket just so I could return it.
I no longer carry your name on my breast
like a badge
or a brand.
I never needed it to keep me warm
and you couldn't handle that,
could you?

And now these words will just get rolled up
into one long straw
that you can add to your (ever growing) pile.

The pile you carry
that weight
so unjust.
Parade it so everyone can see
how other people’s suffering
is still about you.

How my suffocation,
-my exhaustion,
-my exasperation
is still about you.

Tell everyone about the tragedy
of the man who couldn’t bring himself to care.
Who called women goddesses
and then couldn’t engage.
Tell them your sob story,
your emotional damage.
Tell them of all the hearts you broke,
but didn’t know
because it’s not your fault
you’re so attractive.

Pile on the wounds
until you find a girl
who wants to heal them
(don't tell her you poke them with a stick, when she's not looking).
Add this poem to your pile.

This is just another straw.
For me,
it’s the last one.

Lista de imágenes:

1-4. Anna O. Photography

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  • Cruce Printed Cover V1 2011cruce v.1 año 2011
  • Cruce Printed Cover V2 2013cruce v.2 año 2013
  • Cruce Printed Cover V3 2015cruce v.3 año 2015

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