I have abused my abuse.
I can no longer blame my childhood for my actions.
It’s been hard to look at my reflection in the mirror lately, because I’m confronted with a man who has decided to live in error.
I feel both liberated and trapped.
I trespassed the border of comprehension to feel free justifying the unjust.
And now I must go to war.
I’m not stepping into the battlefield empty-handed. I have my awareness, and a wooden cross on my back.
It took me several deaths to understand that love is what I’m after.
I crave it.
I keep looking for it in the filthiest places and in such questionable ways.
I recognize this smell. Once again, I make my way into despair’s waiting room.
I’m shame’s commander-in-chief; self-pity’s whore.
I have the intention of a saint but the body of a sailor.
Oceanic volcanoes collide in my mind.
God must be tired.
But I know Jesus is not.
I pray for mercy knowing I don’t deserve it.
The trodden bag of shit lying in the street is mine.
All my yeses—good, bad, evil, or holy—are marked with my initials.
I am the author.
I am the creator.
No soul is conducting the music I play but me.
Ignorance is bliss, but unaccountability is childish.
I am on a path of reconfiguration, of recoding.
Walking toward my reckoning.
Would you blow new life through my dusty lungs?
Purify my tongue so that I spit balm on leprous ears.
Is there a remedy for my mind’s off-beat palpitation?
Guide me to safety from myself.
Crack my chest open.
Does it have to hurt?
Don’t let the boogeyman under my bed devour my feet.
Console me when the sky has that pink, melancholic hue.
You’ve sent your angels.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed.
Renew my spirit.
Press your nails against my hands when you hold them to cross the street.
Push me back.
Check on me from the shore when I’m floating in the sea.
Destroy my will.
Throw me over the rocks of solitude.
Direct my pen.
I feel worthless, but you are not, so I cannot be.
Pull my heart out of my mouth.
Shake it.
Use your weapon of choice.
Benjamín Cedeño 