By Jose Romero

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Oh, but the physicality of my thinking is chaotic. Outside of my apartment someone is walking up the stairs. I sometimes walk up those stairs and stumble. But I wasn’t always like this.


          I’m gonna write the letter. I’m sorry for not knowing if I loved you. Because things get confusing and my mind’s fucked up. The tears don’t let me write. If what matters are my actions then I never loved you. But it’s the world—this fucked up world; like a mind-rape.

          Right now someone is falling in love with someone that will never love them back. Someone just found out their mother has cancer. Someone is losing a job. Someone is killing a baby they never wanted. Someone is having sex at a bar. Someone’s daughter is crying. I can feel the world around me. So much pain. Everything, everywhere. Staring. Accusing. In the walls, liquifying through the streets.

          The bottle’s in the floor. The wine is going to leave a stain. If you were here you would clean it up. It’s not my fault. They stare. Or carefully not stare. I want you to regret me. (I’d regret me). This hybrid of thoughts and actions and sicknesses and desires and a self-destructive mind accompanied with an ever-changing personality.

          You need to know that that night wasn’t my best. Pills seemed peaceful. But I didn’t do it right. So no, you could say I never loved you.  Yes, I didn’t. Maybe I am too selfish to love. There was always too much pressure from you; to love, to be in a specific way. I never liked that part of you.

          A girl just fell outside. Should I feel bad for her? Feel sorry, only by the mere appearance of innocence? Why is it that we can’t accept that humans are predesigned to do evil? Well, to be selfish, which in a community, is evil. Yet, when faced with a deathly situation, we’ll always think about ourselves. Blood in my nails from scratching too hard. Instinct will always push us to survive. And instinct is nature, nature is good. Therefore, Love is evil?  Love goes beyond nature, it Transcends. That’s it. I can’t love you because I’m selfish, and selfish is good. Yes, I’m good. It’s not my fault.

          Today I saw someone that looked like you. He stared at me and gave me a little smile. The smile people give when they remember something. I like to think he was you. Nonono, he was you. That’s why today I’m feeling somewhat good, Yes. That would have been the last time we ever saw each other; we didn’t know that yet. But it’s fine, because you smiled.

          The girl is still crying. Maybe life doesn’t care for things like innocence.

          Tonight I will do it. Because it was hard. Everything, everywhere. I wanted—demanded joy—but rarely found it. I do, I do. Come, like the song. How was it called? The one we used to hear. That’s it. I’m good. Most of the times. I’m sorry for that; for all the horrible things I did. For the times I cheated; for that time I said you almost never looked pretty (which you do, really, most of the times. Nono, always, yes, you always do. Most of the times you always look pretty); for never giving you a real place in my life; for treating you good before sex; for not having any love to give. Why didn’t I have any love? Oh, The tears The tears, they come. Don’t know why I did it—I knew it hurt you. IknewIknew.

          The wind and the trees, and the plop-plop-plop from the notRain. The water is getting inside, and I have to swim fast. Fast, get to the ocean. Nonono, the sand. The moon. Get there. Have to finish, quick. The pen? When I think of happiness, I think of a kiss we once had—not the first nor the last—just one I remember the most. You were there, over that blue wall, and I was here on this stubborn bed (Shit, my pupils are closing: Openopen) you saw how I smiled and gazed away. You came, hugged me; I rolled over, laughed, told you I was fine. “Didn’t ask if you weren’t,” You held me tight and the hug lingered. Started to cry. Oh, thetears. Maybe the water comes from those, or this; from everything that happened… The warmth of your chest against my back. I never explained, you never asked. I turned around and kissed you. I remember thinking of that moment as the beginning of happiness, not appreciating that it was happiness itself. A few weeks later I tried to die.

          I should change the lightbulb, because its starting to do the same inconstant noise it did the last time. Pzzzztpztpzzzzzzt. Oh, the sound. Stop it. But it wasn’t my fault, I swear. Our love was made out of the smallest of things. The lightbulb, hands, that night at the concert, the kiss, the way you gazed at me when I was about to get inside of you, the day you showed me your high school, the poems, the way our teeth crashed while kissing. Half an orange, half the pills. I can hear music, somewhere.

          The pen is too heavy: trying to write with just thoughts. The only ink I have is the ink from my veins. It smells like chlorine and tobacco and wine and sweat in here. Everything, everywhere. I miss your smell of beer and your handsome hands; the taste from your chest. My jaw is tight and it hurts. Quick. Bones made of stone. ShutthefuckupShutthefuckupShutthefuckup. Why can’t I be like other people? Why do I feel so much and at the same time have an infatuation with the inability to feel? Whywhyfuckwhy? I want you to know that I’ll miss you. I know how I thought missing someone was overrated, but I don’t… It’s just that I never had someone to miss, I guess. NowyouNowyou. There was an animal, somewhere in there, in that vast space—the ocean. Or a thing. Drowning? Escaping?  You’re everyone in your dreams. What? Am I him too? Or it, as I said, it could be a thing. I’m following it, but am I also the thing I’m following? Am I escaping—want to escape?

           Haven’t had anything, ever, give me back that moment. Take me, if only as soul; haven’t had anything; wasn’t my fault. I swear, wasn’t always like this. Please, you hear me? I’llgoI’llgo. Swim down; at the bottom of it all, there it is. I see it, almost. Push me a little, before it goes—before it gets deeper. Life is all about finding the right person to think while dying. Your mere touch. The contrast between the geography of your being and the anatomy of your soul. Don’t ever create a new monotony. It’s like I have planets in my chest. Growing. So much, So fuckingmuch. Open, swallow. Do it. You there? After it all, you still loved me. You understood, they were the ones to blame. NotmeNeverme. You knew I never wanted to hurt you. Thank you for that. The stretching, the drying.

            Crust in bluered veins: the fucking color of Goodbye—The You in us, The Us in me.

            That said, That said. Hug, kiss, I won’t even explain. Theletter. Yes, theletter. You haven’t saved me. Where are you? Have I been writing at all? Yesyesyes. I’m not even scared. I wonder how long it will take for anyone to notice I’m dead. The overlapping, the wholesomeness. All I want is sleep. SleepStop. All. Not the voices, but all. Floating, park, citylights, fastfire. Staring at silver hair: clouds wrapping the world. Spreading. Pulling. Rings of golden dust. Blood toosour, pills toowet.

            I’ll come back. Tell you what I’ve seen.

            I know, but I want to stop now. Will you be quiet? I’ll never get there. I have to get there. Have to… Oceanspace: the ending: a line, falling sand.



             Have it; too small, too slick.

             I want to keep… The noises don’t let me. Shutthefuckup. I feel it. Slipping through my fingers. Stretching. ImplodingExploding. The Legeyes with the tonguepalms and the lungnose, all of me in one: melting, pouring through the universe. Unfolding.


             Oceanspace Rings Hairs Fire Lights Trees Girl Wine Lightbulb I Us Love

             Outside of my apartment someone is walking up the stairs.

– Jose Romero