Imiscalculated the amount of time 
you can metaphorically keep people 
in boxes. 
For twenty-eight days, you were a compilation of 
letters and key chains, 
holes on doors,
love declarations on yellow movie ticket stubs. 
It was so easy to recognize 
that particular shade of sadness in you eyes.


“Dame un abrazo,” 
and I did. 
I didn’t miscalculate 
the location of the familiar gaps 
where we fit right back 
into each other.

The second embrace was a collection 
of earthquakes between the tectonic plates 
of our shoulders, 
and you felt like fragile glass 
that I was not holding with enough care. 
I’ve already broken you enough 
why do you slip back 
so easily into my sharp corners?

Distance makes the heart grow 
stiffer, like the crackling petals 
of every flower you placed 
between my fingers.
"They remind me of you.”
Now you try to find your way back, 
following the scattered limbs 
of every keepsake I tried to bury 
in the bedrock.

You’ll keep trying to reach me, but 
my heart is a valley, 
made up of the broken fragments 
that tell the coordinates to our miscalculated love. 
Maybe next time, you can keep me in the box 
and you won’t shed a tear 
over what you think you lost 
when I severed myself from you.


caja de metal


Ever since I put you out
like that last cigarette, 
solitary in a crumpled 
I've remembered what it's like 
to breathe without you, 
lurking in the 
of my chest.


“I’ll probably marry you,” I whisper, 
craving that metallic taste 
on my tongue, 
having your remnants 
on the beds of my fingers.

Let me open the next 
and inhale you while 
you’re still around 
leaving a trail 
of embers in my ashtray.

I just wrote a story in 
my head 
about how I jump on airplanes, 
leaving you because 
bringing you with me would be 
a federal crime. 
I’ll laugh 
from within the cellblock because 
they can’t jail away 
the story of us 
scarred on my corroded lungs.

I just wrote a story in 
my head 
about how even when I’ll need 
a metal chest to breathe 
for my decaying lungs 
I will still come back to you.

I feel like I’ve written this story before. 
Had these words uttered 
through made-up lips 
and baby pink lungs. 
They say the first step 
to overcoming addiction 
is to admit you have a 
I’ll probably marry you.

mis cajas de implicaciones


You once told me 
“yo nos veía como una sola persona” 
which made me think 
about how alone I felt sometimes 
so I guess that makes sense. 

[Sometimes being with yourself isn’t 


If we are mirror images of each other, 
your skin is my skin,
my brain is yours,
our wrists share the same veins,
then was I trying to cut diagonally 
when I severed myself from you.

[“Down the road, not across the street”.]

I detoxed by putting you in a box, 
but it wasn’t long before 
I dug you up,
read the letters, 
listened to the songs, 
exhaled the toxicity that we’d spread 
to each other.

[Rinse and repeat.]

I didn’t see us 
as one person,
but I did tie you to me 
with a collection of strings. 
When I noticed 
you kept getting tangled with my 
implications, your body bruised, 
I realized it would be too late to 
cut them without making you bleed

[Red string of fate bullshit.]

We are not the same person, 
but I know you, 
all of you, from 
the lines on your forehead 
that denote a life too old 
for your young body, 
your sad eyes 
(“I can’t believe you thought they were brown.”), 
the thin, feminine fingers I’ll never have. 
A moustache?

[You can never really know all of somebody.]

I spend our time together 
trying to heal the crisscross scars 
that I meticulously calculated 
trying to unearth the magic of 
your skin, 
like outlining constellations 
in the sky. 
I know now 
there is magic in you 
and I don’t need to lay claim 
over it, for it to be 


Lista de imágenes:

1-4. Sydney Sie, Unexpectable Boxes, 2015.