I mourn the end of our love
like a death
cycling through stages of grief
lingering
at bargaining
with the undead.
I tried to bury you
block your number
and your Facebook profile
but it’s so easy to unblock
and visit the grave
of status updates.
One click
and there’s your stupid face
plush lips pulsing with
cold-blooded life
tempting me to text you:
Come eat my flesh.
In my ofrenda to you
I place my pride beside your image,
la Crucecita on the altar
with tamarindo y tentación.
And you come.
You’re alive.
But our love is dead.
So each attempt to resurrect
just creates another
monster
each one uglier than the rest.
And I mourn
in swollen sickness
as I spawn the undead.