dark cinnamon skin calloused guava fingers

and rum, soft apples and sugar cane teeth

prunes congealed in raw sugar. i sat breathing

you in dizzying from across the room, thought

about cold tile, swaying, the roof of yellow flowers.

while you were here you kissed me on the cheek

and took me by the hand to get ice cream.

i walked through you, couldn’t bring myself to

lean in and whisper stories of the things i’d learned.

your angels float silly above my bed i slip                   under the covers

my hands around their necks: choke them back            away

into crumpled pencilled napkins and leftovers,                    time

i want you to look in my head: the warmth

at the base of my skull, to where it extends

you’re on my eyelids, my mirror, imprinted

on my right thumb, smiley baby, you glitter fruit.

sit in the same room, empty, no pinkies. the house

is cotton and blood, veiny thin body walls, weaving

through cotton it sinks around me, shrinks I think

of what I didn’t do. The house wanes wheezes slips

down into crevices of a room somewhere.

___

Abril Rodriguez Diaz is a high school junior at Orange County School of the Arts. Her work has previously been published in Inkblot Magazine, and her zine is sold by LibroMobile. Apart from writing, Abril enjoys music, pasta, and running downhill. There is nothing she finds more satisfying than filling up a blank sheet of paper with math calculations.