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A series of depressive poems soon to be published by Editorial Torremozas' poetic anthology "New Voices" (2023). Originally written in Spanish, translated to English by me.

I. Aspirations

I think I could have a life of

sustainable detergents


medical check-ups

white vacations

some surprises

like the first steps of a little girl

that I could call daughter

or little scares too

like dreaming of a well

like hanging out the laundry and smelling the rain.

At times I think I could

weave something like patience

make calm grow like a loaf of bread

emptying the wait of its contents and rest

sitting on a shady porch

admiring the black horses

like statues among the hay or white swans skating on

the impervious surface of a green lake...

But inside I am on fire

as I wait

for things to start, for someone to assign me

a turn: I find myself always ecstatic.

I can't look in the mirror without splintering like ice.

I can't see a long street

without wanting to fly out of the window and crash

into the endless sky.

II. " Escape thoughts" which is not the same as "suicidal thoughts."

At times I forget that I could be somewhere else....

The possibility exists: the window is a few steps away from this bed.

The possibility exists

of packing everything and leaving or simply

pack nothing and leave too,

walking down the same street as always

and leave the washing machine running

the lights on

leave someone with my name

in their mouth.

But even to disappear,

to run away like I want to

I suspect, one must have a plan...

Where to now?

The question already haunts me like a shadow.

I don't know! I don't know!

Let's turn around

undo the path, change your mind, go back.


Kiss your husband on the forehead

caress your cat

take a nostalgic look at the kitchen tiles.

Apologize: no, this is not where I wanted to leave from.

no, it wasn't you that I wanted to escape from

this was not the escape I imagined.

I am a small world and I can only stretch to a certain point.

I reach the borders of myself and I can barely touch them with my finger...

To leave that way... a few seconds are enough...

the window is a few steps away from this bed.

The possibility exists, I can imagine it, and yet

I dare not.

I only treasure the sensation

-of floor, of flight, of air-

like a presentiment.

III. A wish

In an alternate world,

unknown, perpendicular to this one,

that may only exist beneath the streets,

in the drains or inside the mirrors of certain houses

and which can only be reached unintentionally

by falling into a hole:

It is a magnificent night.

Before, it was a white and luminous day.

We dance tightly and drink sweet wine

in a garden with emerald trees

frogs shining like lanterns.

We don't have to go to sleep.

We look into each other's eyes and they sparkle.

It's a magnificent night of a summer that never ends....

The world seems infinite and everything beautiful


IV. Thumbelina

I have a tiny life

that takes place only under the lamps

or at the foot of certain beds,

that I leave hanging over the dining room chairs,

on the threshold of doors

in the cupboards and the closets.

Only to sleep I strip myself of it.

I get rid of its heaviness and leave it lying

crumpled up on the dark floor...

I enter the sleep like an animal in the forest

crawling, exhausted, trembling,

I reach the soft field of my bed

and when I close my eyes

I am something new:

white, plain, like cold porcelain....

but with no shape to cage me

no weight to burden me

with nothing more than a dream that expands

under the sheets and at the back of my eyes.

V. Regreso

Did I exist that day and walked, majestic and young, along that white street at dawn?

Did I survive one more night of fluorescent party and force myself to sleep on pink sheets?

I am still on that bed waking up, with the hope of having proved something to myself...

If I go back:

Will I see myself leaning out of a window thinking I deserve a place in this world?

Or does only a dark and impatient street awaits me?

A closed window or worse, an empty one.

Something very sad occurs to me:

places don't remember

the people we were in them.

VI. An emptiness full of things

There are things that grow to the measure of a fault

like a well, a pit or a hole:

it exists only because it is empty

because it contains an absence.

I try to fill it.

radishes, whole wheat bread, digestive teas; flowers like lavender or milk jasmine, carpeted chairs, long lamps, shirts with mother-of-pearl buttons, leopard and black patent leather shoes, peach juice, cans of coke, a million cigarettes, psychoanalysis sessions, stupid desires like a new tattoo, fleeting and weak hobbies, numerous drugs of all kinds, plants that will die sooner or later and whose name I never learned, glassy words like future, books and books even if they bore me, even if they make me feel sad and lonely and only exist on my bookshelf to remind me that I haven't read them but above all, that I don't want to do so...

I accumulate days like dirty dishes.

As soon as they arrive, I throw them

back, like a bridal bouquet

and I listen to them

at the end of the absence,

how they break

into a thousand little white pieces.

It is insatiable, but I don't blame it.

I understand that its manhole nature,

long, empty and dark

prevents him from doing anything else.

VII. Remoteness

Days like empty pockets, I reach in and pull out

crumbs, tickets, coins.

I don't see them coming

I don't understand their shape

I don't know where they start or where they end...

I only have a window that lights up and darkens

it dictates a strange rhythm that does not concern me

I'm not entirely alone either...

Love lies by my side, yes.

But I decided not to touch it.

I am elsewhere,

far from myself.

What is it like to speak from the edge of words?

from the center of a silence?

Inside all things and myself: nothing.

I am a radical and taciturn atheist.

VIII. No hard feelings

In my eternal condition of intern



of not "good for nothing" but rather

"relatively good

for a few things very specific,

unprofitable and competitive".

always in the race for the attention

of the baby boomer on duty

who will decide how special I am how intelligent I am

how fresh is the perspective I bring to the project, to the table, to the meeting

where I am always sitting on the periphery

with a pen in my hand sometimes even

a notebook

just to disguise my role as a perennial listener,

I wonder:

Why do I get to the places I call

reward or desire and despise them?

Why does it make me so miserable to keep my promises?

The pilates instructor yells at me "I'm light and perfect like a ballerina!"

and me, that very same morning,

while watching an egg frying in a tiny frying pan

I thought I could put my hand in the fire.


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