Here In Verdad

In truth, I am tired. I am ill. I hurt. In truth, I have no choice. I am re-evaluating my life (damn I wish I was male). It doesn’t look very good. I feel like I have achieved diddly-squat. Nothing. Zilch. The medicine I’m taking is making me feel ill. I feel like throwing up, and I understand that this is how I will feel until the end of March. I will feel sick on my birthday.

In a matter of weeks I will be eighteen. What do I have to show for eighteen years of life? An addiction to poisonous guys, an unbelievable JAMB result, a finally stable head on my surviving shoulders? The body of a girl/woman that got lost in Paris in the middle of the night and didn’t know what ‘tout-droit’ meant?

A lonely girl. A too-intense, too-passionate, too-obsessive Arian. Ay, I cause these problems. Not so, carino?

Ay, hago estas problemas, verdad? Ay, ay, ay.

Ese lunar que tienes…..
Cielito lindo…
junto a la boca…
no toca es para nadie…
cielito lindo…
junto a la boca…
ese lunar que tienes….
que a mi me tocas…

ay, ay, ay, ay
pajaro que abandona
su primer nido
tienes merecrido.



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