Days of the Undead

I mourn the end of our love
like a death
cycling through stages of grief
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
each one uglier than the rest.

And I mourn
in swollen sickness
as I spawn the undead.


You can finish my sentences.
This is sweet and
It means you also know
which strings to pull
to activate
my weaknesses.

I never saw it coming.
Such a silent unassuming assassin.
Floating in on
venom-tipped feathers
to pleasantly paralyze
my depleted defenses.

But I’m no fool.
And I’m a better poet than you.
So I’m off to write better sentences
that you
could never complete.


I think of the darkest places I have been
and I know
this is not that
this is not black

it is blue
it is a billion translucent saltwater drops
absorbing all the fiery pain of long wavelengths
and reflecting back the bright chill of short-lived sapphires

not darkness
but blinding light.


For the most part, I’m ok.
But then

a silence will settle and
an ache
will radiate
from the center of my ribcage

twisting lungs & larynx into suffocating lumps
curdling memories along the sour synaptic connection
     between digestive and cerebral systems
detonating dormant tear ducts

and surfacing
like a hundred subtle stab wounds
on my desolate skin.