¿Sabías?

here the air
is not composed of oxygen, but of
shimmering futile
dreams -- a
new one shriveling
with each gray
breath
this sickening city
takes.

people
are so cruel
to each other's
fantasies and
my lungs
are made
of watercolor,
ready to wash
quickly

down
into puddles of Blue
and pink
under the pressure of too
many demons.

¿Sabías?

que nunca he aprendido a estar
Sola;

que el ser Jóven y Bonita
no remedia
Nada;

que quisiera aprender a volar;

que cuando te dicen
que soy mucha mujer para ti,
No es broma...

¿Sabías?

Ni importa.

the passage of each
calm bitter
day
strips yet another
feather
from my
wings

6.28.01