Mi Amor, Mi Corazon

So I’ve been in hospital the last week! Turns out the food poisoning kind of thing I had had messed up my diabetes so much that my blood had turned into a weak kind of acid, like a goddamn Xenomorph! I’m home now, but I’m still pretty weak so I don’t know how tonight’s little attempt at writing some more of The Caitiff will go!

As a result, I haven’t really been able to write anything over the past week except a dismal kind of essay about the hospital I was in, which I intend to review and, eventually, do something with. I’m not sure what, but something is better than nothing, right? So here’s a bad poem from the back-catalogue I draw on when I’ve got little else to fill this space with.

There was terror in her eyes,
genuine fear and
yet, a certainty,
I could not dare to console.

Mi corazon personified,
and I could never offer her
falsified fact.

I let her sleep alone,
no personality then,
and one I could not defend,
and one I could not offer gratitude towards,
nor solidarity against.

And yet,
I mourned a heart still beating.
Slower and slower despite my pressure.
Both eyes unbroken at last
every query ignorant of our state. As though the sheer,
deniability of this reality,
could alter its actuality.

As though our misunderstood fantasies could alter this,
This misunderstanding of your fact.

What inadequacy could alter us both,
twist fear and chain
explainable rage from paradoxical prose.

She left, mi amor, silence now with sobs as self-obsession.

As though He remained in her future,
Like words on the page.
But by what right,
unmentioned, unheard
Do I abuse a death for my own gain?
Or is it sudden, meaningless grief I mock.
Replicate for the profit of a career.

To malign the inhumane for my humanity.

The scent of her ear against my lips,
as she drowned in herself,
never changed.

And who do I speak to now?
Who do I approach and go,
to speak of Elliot, of Michelangelo and
I know,
can fail to mention my own failure,
my lack of talent in acting the role of falsification,
of parodied Romeo.

Naked and dead now,
with the honesty of a beast.

But Spanish is a Loving tongue,
so mi Amor mi Corazon.

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