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.


My intuition is quick.

My brain is
sludging through desire
fueled synaptic electricity
trained to trip me into
instant gratification

unable to parse
or put a finger on
the difference between
pulse and personality
interest and interesting

into himself or into me or
into himself being into me or
inside of me
physically but not mentally
and god forbid emotionally.

But my intuition is quick.

Something is wrong!
Very wrong!
Red flags through rose-colored lenses
still wave
shredded by the wind of his own
hot breath

breathing into my ear
me me me me
first person
no interrogative
yet finger tips quite explorative
sending instant waves
to bumble my brain.

But I trust my gut and
walk away because
never stay.


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.