I DON’T REMEMBER WHICH JEANS THOSE WERE

I'm sitting on the sidewalk with my ripped jeans
I just take 5 antidepressants with beer
in the street
everything is better.
I smoke a cigarette and it falls from my hands
I have no strength and I love it
I enjoy not being myself.
Going out and plopping down on the sidewalk is my notion of fun.
It's been my habit of choice for the last four months because
I discovered how good it feels to avoid pain.
Despite all this I think I must be dying of sadness, day by day.
When I'm not out in the street I put on good music in my room
and I shut myself away to dream about everything I'm missing.
Every day the same good music.
I rise and fall like a piece of melting on the mattress
when I don't fall onto the floor.
Then
I use my hand to brush off my ripped jeans.
I left it all
but not for God,
just because
because if felt especially felt good to let myself go.
I'm wearing dirty jeans
stained with spit and beer and little pieces of Express crackers.
On the street I don't beg for change, and no one gives any.
Nobody looks at me.
Dogs sniff at me.
I'm not cold
it's the middle of winter
and I stopped being a girl who runs cold.
Now I'm not me.
I don't know what made
turn on the computer today.
It's been four months and more I've since turned it on.
Without even seeing a beautiful boy. Without even seeing anything special in the street today.
Nothing weird or unexpected happened.
I put on the same good music as always.
I found a tangerine someone dropped on the ground and I ate it.
I made a rule in my head
to create some balance.
I don't feel anything special today.
But maybe it's because today I remembered her, with her infinite beauty,
and I was jealous,
envious and full of panic
and that's why I decided to do something .
Like I would have in the days when I was me.

Belleza y Felicidad: Selected Writings of Fernanda Laguna and Cecilia Pavón, translated by Stuart Krimko, Key West: Sand Paper Press, 2014.