ramirez

him: how are you?

me: same as always. on that fine line between south bronx and paris.

and that's how i always feel. struggling to remember who i was and still trying to find out who i am. but it depends on which day you catch me. some days, i'm so reminiscent of the south bronx, you can literally hear my voice over elevated trains and you can see double dutch ropes in my pupils.

second chances are only for addicts and maybe that includes me. addicted to icees from older women who only speak spanish to little girls who barely know english. addicted to fairytales with glass slippers with the red bottoms only. addicted to butterflies, first glances and secrets. and i'm so addicted to making love, whether it's in conversation or bedsheets. whatever it takes and all that gives, as long as i come back to you.

but my talent is only as great as my inspiration. so i hope every day is better than the last and every love is deeper than the first so i can write about living and live for my writing. and i can make no apologies for the things i've done but rather for the things i haven't. so each word is a dedication to the concealed, the forgotten and that thing we call second chances.