this is why i don't drink
Hold me by the stem and drink me whole, drink me holy,
taste my blood turning into rosé and rip my flesh apart.
A few drops will do to pour out the parts of myself I avoid
when looking into the bathroom mirror.
I’m afraid you’ll see too much of me, that’s why I keep myself layered,
that’s why I keep myself quiet, that’s why I keep myself cold and distant.
This is the reason I only get on my knees for the priest in the Shirley Temple,
or why I rather have sex on the altar and never pick up when Mary calls.
I will watch as the world stretches out above me, my palms
will hit the concrete before you know it, and you know me.
You know the me that looks like me but is not whatever you thought I was.
This me is ugly, this me is a melting wax baby, this me is filled to the brim
with needs and self-pity for things I’m not brave enough to pull out of the rug.
Little black roaches have invited themselves to be guests in this body,
they crawl inside my guts and feed from the cum that falls. But all I want to do
is pull them out to frame them and hang them on the walls of a gallery for everyone
to see just how much I’ve hated myself for the things I’ve never done and the things
that have been done to me.
Andrés Hernández is a student at the Autonomous University of Baja California, where he studies Translation and Interpretation of Languages. His work has appeared in WorldLink, Zeta, Linotipia.org, and several other fine publications. He recently presented his first collection of poems, Terapia (Saturno Editorial, 2017), at the Northern Literature Festival (FELINO) in Tijuana, Mexico.