Dear Isabella-

Dear Isabella-

They say there are more ghosts in New Orleans than in all the haunted castles in England. And if you walk through and see the melancholy-in-their-beauty cemeteries, you’d believe it. At least I do. Sort of. You know how I’m not very superstitious and all.

So I walk around in this ridiculous heat, trying like hell to forget about you, but all the damned gravestones and all the damned grim, grinning reminders of what we once had mock me. Ghostly remembrances of you gesturing crazily at some hat you just had to have, or of me holding that awful and gaudy mask right out of Amadeus away from you. The time I lost that bet to march in the gay pride parade and got more numbers in five minutes than you had through college and you got all offended.

Ghosts of me, ghosts of you.

I don’t want to be haunted by this, Bella. But I am. Because, despite all that’s happened, I still love you. You’re it for me, and I’m sorry if that’s bothersome for you, but there you have it.

Actually, I take that back. I’m not at all sorry. You must have dosed me with something, Isabella Swan. Or maybe it was that one-toothed Madame DeVeque, adding a little juju to those stupid daiquiris you insisted we drink while driving around on lazy summer evenings. Maybe she’s got some curative daiquiri for the broken-hearted, because I’m not entirely sure I’m going to survive this.

Hell, what am I even doing? You won’t read this. You’d never sit still long enough to read something this true.

And you know what? I don’t forgive you for that. For your impatience. Or for your poor judgment. Or for your flighty attitude toward life, or your sad work ethic.

None of it.

Mostly, I don’t forgive you for leaving.

I do not forgive you.

I don’t know if I ever will.

My heart is broken, Bella.

Soy lectora

Soy artista

Soy una romántica

Soy un poco loca

Soy fanática

Soy escritora

pero no soy poeta

ni soy silenciosa 

he querido sacrificar mis días y mis semanas
en las ceremonias del poema.

he implorado tanto
desde el fondo de los fondos
de mi escritura.

Coger y morir no tienen adjetivos.

Encontré en el museo, dos puertas altas de madera. 

A la altura de los ojos, dos agujeros.

Escondida detrás de la pared, la siguiente foto. 

Se de un secreto.

Penetra complacido pero no complaciente. 

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear);
And whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (For you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world (For beautiful you are my world, my true)
And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
And whatever a sun will always sing is you.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows.
(Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
And the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

mi novio dice que las copas me hacen kinki. 

No entiende cómo llegó, 

desde allá hasta acá,

siendo católica y reprimida.