•13/11/2017 • Leave a Comment

I don’t scribble hearts anymore

now I only draw arrows and straight lines

rigid, as corpses



•12/11/2017 • Leave a Comment

​Saturday evening. 

The country is on the brink of economic default, the streets are empty and silent, and so are the halls of every supermarket. There is no meat, no chicken, no flour or sugar. From my window, all I can see is more and more people gathering around garbage cans looking for scraps of food that haven’t gone bad. 

My dishes have been washed, dried up and put away. The house is spotless after a whole morning of cleaning, dusting and scrubbing. Life within these four walls needs to be kept tidy and pristine in an attempt to avoid getting the inner and outer airs mixed and contaminated. 

I turn to stare out the window for a little longer, saddened by the view of the hungry rummaging through the ruins of a once very rich land, and with the longing of a prisoner who has lost all hopes of freedom and has forgotten what it feels like to have the late afternoon breeze blowing through her hair.

Saturday night.

My plates have been used again for dinner. Rewashed and redried, always thankful for the food we are still able to afford. My daughter now sits at her little table, on her pink chair, doing her weekend homework with her granny, who seems to be more patient when it comes to undertake this endeavour which involves too many colors, glitter and glue for my eternal somber mood. Outside, there is no one left around the garbage spot, as even the homeless are frightened by the wave of crime that sweeps down the corners of this city in a very vampiresque fashion after dawn. I cannot help but wonder if my little girl somehow feels my pain, perceives my deep sentiment of loneliness, as not long ago she urged me not be sad, even though I wasn’t crying. That strong is the bond between mothers and daughters, we are able to read whatever anguish could be hiding behind each other’s chests.

Apart from the warmth in my daughter’s blue eyes, there is nothing left but garbage bags, strewn up and down the street, a clean house, a tidy kitchen, a preschool homework done perfectly, a loving grandma and a feeling of desolation clinging to the last functioning vessels of my heart. 


•08/11/2017 • Leave a Comment

Con un bisturí 

me sacaría el corazón a pedazos,

me arrancaría lo que me duele

y lo que ya no me pertenece.

Lo dejaría mutilado, deforme y malherido

y con estoicismo 

aprendería a vivir con lo que quede de él

Sobreviviría con un despojo de músculo

lo necesario para no morir ahogada

conforme, pero nunca feliz.

Los trozos que extirpé

bordean mi cordura

murmuran tu nombre

y hostigan lo que resta de mí

La hojilla aún ensangrentada

coquetea con mi garganta 

pero mi pulso es inestable

las manos tiemblan

la taquicardia es melódica

y el desmayo sobreviene

oscuridad y residuos

sin latido alguno


•05/11/2017 • Leave a Comment

Quiero mojar mi pelo y el tuyo

con el manantial que emana de mis senos

me gustas aquí,

sobre mí, dentro de mí

sudados, entrelazados,


Báñame, háblame, tócame.

Me escondo en las cavernas de tu cuerpo

el dolor ya no es ronco ni oscuro,

y mi llanto cesa.

Por unas horas, soy feliz

A letter to myself

•02/11/2017 • Leave a Comment


From childhood’s hour I have not been 

As others were—I have not seen 

As others saw—I could not bring 

My passions from a common spring— 

From the same source I have not taken 

My sorrow—I could not awaken 

My heart to joy at the same tone— 

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone

Edgar Allan Poe


My relationship with the written word began at a very early age, and it was always related to some sort of secrecy, desires and thoughts put down on paper, but never intended to be disclosed. When I was about 12 years old, my mom gave me a Little Mermaid’s heart-shaped diary with a padlock on it, so that I could write down my feelings without worrying about anyone reading them. Growing up an only child, having no one to play with or talk to at home, that diary became my escape valve, it was a fairly easy and fun way to purge my feelings of guilt, which were branded deep in my soul thanks to my Catholic upbringing. I remember writing, many years later in what could have been my tenth diary, about touching myself while thinking about a man almost twice my age and married. There I was, still a virgin, living my early masturbatory experiences while dreaming of an impossible. A two- fold sinner who needed to purge her wrong doing(s) on a piece of paper. If committing a sin felt that good, I was willing to sell my soul to the devil, then. Now, almost 17 years later, I haven’t changed my mind and I am convinced that guilt is a creation of own brain, an excuse to run away from that which frightens us, of something that has been categorized to be off-limits, but deep down makes us feel good. I also decided not be a Catholic anymore, as I condemn the fact that a priest, a guy who cannot marry, cannot have sex with others or even please himself, feels with a (literal) God-given right to tell me I will go to the fifth circle of hell were I to crystallize my fantasy with that forbidden man.


Right now, I am sitting in a waiting room. One of the coldest I have ever been to. It is funny how I have always found writing to be most appealing whenever I am waiting for something or someone. This time, I have no pen or heart-shaped diary with pink slips on me. Technology and new times have ravaged the romantic sensuality of having the tip of a pen run all over the surface of a piece of paper. Instead, I have a tablet that makes it a bit harder to type words in and, since I live in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, it is not without fear of being mugged or killed for this device that I sit here to do it. Again, a sense of prohibition and fear accompanies the experience.


I am about to go in for a small, yet uncomfortable procedure which will put an end to an equally painful condition called polycystic ovaries. Apparently, the kind of ovaries I have chosen to have are the most whimsical organs in my body. At their own will, they feel like controlling my weight, they decide how my skin looks, adorn my hair with greasy streaks and affect my mood which, by the way,  makes me the most bitter woman in the eyes of most my acquaintances. I have always been a coward when it comes to physical pain, even more so when I know it will consist on a doctor with gloved hands and myself in a very thin white gown. What comes to my mind is that at some point, I will see him poking his head from between my legs, throw me a worried look, probably a shake of the head too, and tell me that I have a terminal illness, that nothing more can be done. The fear of death has been by my side ever since I can remember, as it appears that she’s always been lurking around, waiting for me to be careless and surprise me with her cold touch, exactly like the doctor’s with the gloved hand.


As I pondered the possibility of being told that I was going to die within the hour, other stories began to intertwine in this very room. There is a woman sitting next to me, who had a phony walk when she came in and whose voice has felt like an annoying buzz in the background to this whole soliloquy. From what I could grasp, she had recently undergone breast enhancement surgery and was not happy with the results. The swelling had already subsided and she didn’t feel she looked like someone who had just had a boob job. Besides being a dangerous country, Venezuela has always been famous for our beauty pageants, our rum and women with fake asses and breasts, a land with no other attractions but those of the flesh, a drunken imagery of brunettes wearing bikinis all day, soaking the Caribbean sun and drinking a cold “Polar” beer. A yearly calendar is even sold showing the cheeky gals drinking our popular brew. I was then faced with a real dichotomy: here I sit dreading to have a stranger poke into my insides, scared of everything that hid behind that closed door which, for all I knew, was full of tweezers and speculum-like artifacts, whereas this young lady was willing to pay for a whole new procedure in full because her knockers were just not big enough. In her case, Death had been forced to take a seat at the gallery in her OR and was invited as a guest, an expectator who was not allowed to act or say anything but watch how life managed to defeat it this time.


A few chairs down the hall, another young woman, light haired, probably in her mid-forties, with a fake Gucci bag way too big for her slender forearm to hold, is nervously talking on her cellphone in a very loud tone of voice. She is crying because she just had received the devastating news of having cancer and was making an attempt to break it to someone over the phone. My worst fear was materializing right in front of my eyes and I just kept thinking what I would do in that same situation. When she was done talking, she put her cellphone in the over-sized purse, neatly placed it on the chair next to her, buried her head between her hands and started sobbing uncontrollably. My first impulse was to run to her, hold her and tell her that everything would be fine, that she was going to make it through this and that she needed to be strong now. I cannot move, I am shaking in my seat, completely unable to utter a sound, to even breathe and I am starting to feel light headed. I need to step out for a while. As I struggle to stand up, the nurse called my name. It was my time to go in. The young lady who was looking more and more fragile by the minute, rushed past me and fled through the door. She and I both are now on our own. She would never know if I ever made it out of that office at all and I would never know how much longer she had to live, what kind of cancer she had or whether that person on the other side of her cellphone would be the one to close her eyes upon her demise.


Cancer has taken most of my family members away: their stomachs, bones, throats, breasts, they all have suffered the chemotherapeutic buffetings of their own. Even my father is currently ill with prostatic hyperplasia caused by a tumor. This is the new-age consumption without the romanticism; there are no lace handkerchiefs to cough up the blood from the lungs, but plastic containers to spit on in the most disgraceful, vulgar and humiliating manner instead. Each visit to the doctor is plagued by the fear of being told that my body is somehow overrun by the disease. I hate the feeling of being frightened and, lately, I am afraid of mostly everything. I was once loved as madly as Poe loved Virginia, as faithfully as Mario adored Tosca, a sentiment that kept me shielded from all that was dark and scary, but one fine day it disappeared down the road of the ever-persistent and omnipresent guilt. I am still striving to learn how to live without it as I try to convince myself that there is nothing more human, more primal and natural than fear.


•27/10/2017 • Leave a Comment

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I have stopped looking for you

everyday I sit at the edge of your memory

waiting for oblivion to come

but it lacks persistence and is stubborn

and always leaves me behind with the strength of your surge


Your silence does not answer my calling anymore

your profile is a blur in my thoughts

I have forgotten the texture of your hands,

your hair on my pillow

the rain seems to have washed away what was left of you

and lethargy has smothered whatever was left of me


I am no good for long waits

neither sleep I on nights of absurd longing

I gave you all the hours of my existence

and you gave me back my soul

this time blackened and trembling

I wish I could say I love you no more

but I am no good at lying either


I hide behind these written words

letters you will never read

my pillow, my only witness and confident

she seems content

with the outflow of tears I pour on her every night

as I lay there

with only you on my mind

and an agonizing heart to deal with the next morning


•25/10/2017 • Leave a Comment

Having a rusty wire shoved up my vagina

puncturing my uterus

disrupting my guts

perforating my stomach

collapsing my lungs

slicing my heart in two

That I could have lived with

that kind of pain I could have endured 

But this void left in my soul

this overwhelming pain

caused by your absence

is nothing but a mutant beast

Some days seem to be easier

as it sleeps in the darkest corner of my mind

but there are other times

much more obscure

when it feels as if I am walking on air

everything around me looks surreal

loneliness stomps hard on my temples

and tears have a will of their own

Today is one of those somber days

there is no hope in sight

hours feel like centuries

and your silence makes the loudest scream

sound like a timid hush