de Ángela Orozco Torres


I’d like to think that I’m a pretty girl

In a messed up world

but then I realized how narcissistic it is of me to assume

that the dimensions of my being are universally understood,

that the person hovering on the other side of the glass

is what you think you see.


Es interesante, pienso yo. Como la soledad canta. Existe en las esquinas oscuras de nuestros cuerpos, las partes más privadas.


It hovers quietly.


Some nights I feel its breath in my chest.

Those nights when I keep 8 tracks on in order to absorb the finer details of 1 a.m. darkness. The stumbling of a heart that just wants to be remembered, knocking on my skin as if it wants to get out a while, have a breath of fresh air directly from the source instead of second hand oxygen.


I always have to tuck it away, quietly. I whisper my reasons; I tell it stories. Like about how on some nights I experience what it is to be terribly alone, even when my body is present among others, even when I try to assure us that the same plane of existence connects 1 pm to 1 am,


but I know the truth: this is what dreams are made of, mild fantasies we hold onto in the dark, to protect them from tangibility.


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