The days are turning dark it plucks at tender flesh like fruit bats gnawing and salivating over a bloody mess of cranberry juice and macerated swollen cherries— it drains me out upper lip stained with the red and souls of the innocent and asks for another cup so till my body ends up looking like an old romance film (distinguished with a touch of gothic pale)

Raw skin is slowly melting off of me. It

stains Tia Celina's stupid, white carpet, and seeps into Hell and I feel a rumble of a revelation; a chatter in my teeth and I hear dad down there, fist raised up— it's a black panther salute and a middle finger to white Jesus— cursing me (and the Republican Party) for ruining his new shirt.

It spoils my insides like when Abulea forgets to put the milk in the fridge

(it's been two days, Abuelita). And I sit until I go rotten and end up reeking of socialistic values and first love. I guess I can finally die in peace. No, pieces.