Cowardly you are to say you believe me when you know I’m lying. Cowardly you are to look away when I look in you. Cowardly you are to bring a knife when I’m not ready. Cowardly you are to use excuses to get committed. Cowardly you are to fear the dark where I am waiting. Bravo I clap in your dreams. Bravo Brave one who feared not to lie, and look me in the eye, warm dripping of crimson and gavel bangs with decision. I can’t wait to see you again.

I am someone who falls in love easily- unfortunately this afflication has a mirrored effect- for just as easily I am able to climb out of it. I am sorry, to the trail of broken hearts, that I have left behind. I picture it like this, walking through a garden of lovers and picking a flower from each patch of persons, all different in shape, smell, and liking. With each I have spent precious times with, with each I would never like to forget, with each I drop a tear for I regret not being able to love for long. I am sorry for not being delicate with your hearts, for the slow rotting of the broken flowers falling from my hands. I am sorry to my own heart, for the torture of breaking ways with those whose roots had become entangled in yours, sorry for their new fences to keep you out. I am most sorry for the inability to explain the unintentions and yet the truth of the love that was shared. And yet, through the garden I continue.

My eyes, seemingly autonomous from my dreamy mind push against each other breaking the thin layer of salt that gathered overnight.

I cry in my sleep sometimes - silently- it’s my indication of a nightmare, as I have hardly the displine to remember the world of my dream-state. I consider this a major flaw, as dreaming is a thing I think one ought to remember.

My fingers brush the salt film away and I can feel the red color of my eyes, highlighting the green tint of my irises. I’d like to see it. I yield to my vainess and my first thoughts consist of finding a mirror.

Wait.

Where am I?

An intense dread begins to emanate from my chest. I sit up, too quickly.

Little bugs float around my immediate surroundings. With them, I feel sickness rising up my throat. Mirror. Bathroom. I have to find one.

I slide my feet to the floor beneath the bed I was laying on. Disgusting. No sheets, but a rather unfortunate yellow mattress. Was it once white? I shudder at the thought.

My toes are surprised by the fleshy end they meet. Someone else. Who?

Another girl, laying on the ground. I can’t make out her face, as she looks to have made herself quite comfortable on the blue tiled floor, her arms creating a pillow and her raging dark hair a blanket on her back. I step over her, after checking for signs of life.

Another odd feeling presents itself to me. I am so sore. Not the kind of ache a newly worked muscle brings, but rather the kind of pain that indicates a fall. A hard fall. I pull up my sleeve to see the blooming purple marks of blood collecting under my skin.

What the hell?

I take in the whole room. Other than the mattress, it looks okay. Kind of nice. White walls and two open windows, the breeze making the white laced curtains dance. The shadows between the laces create changing marks on the wall. I forget my nausea as I contemplate their pattern, gradually making my way to the door.

Shutting it sofly, I realize I am in some kind of hostel, with embroidered signs framed with dusty glass directing me to the bathroom. El baño. Spanish. Spanish? Where am I?

The bathroom is occupied and I take the time to remove the bits of dirt and debris I collected on my bare feet during the short walk. I hear a grunt. The door is pushed, once, twice, and a boy who looks about my age falls out.

“Hello,” I say, my voice unusually rough. I clear my throat and try again, “Can I ask you, where is this place?”

“This place? Like this hostel? Or...?” he answers curiously.

“This hostel... and the city?” I ask, sounding more like myself.

“We’re in Tulum. In Mexico. The hostel name I’m not sure, but I think you can ask downstairs.” He looks at me intensly for a beat, and I nod my head thanks.

I begin to slide in the bathroom door when he calls to me again.

“Didn’t I see you last night? With the other girl? Maralina? She has the hair? The curly dark hair?”

I search his eyes for some reminance of recollection. None. Instead I feign memory.

“Oh. I think so maybe,” and before he replies, I shut the door.

It’s almost a talent how quickly I gag when I see the toilet. Like my body knew to wait.

The bile is awful, I can hardly imagine the drinks consumed as they induce more feelings of sickness.

The mirror. It’s missing. Too bad. Instead, I look down on myself and am embarassed to see only underwear and a raggedy shirt. Certainly not my shirt.

Turning back to the door, I brace myself for a heavy push as the boy did, but am surprised at the ease of its opening.

I check the hallway to make sure no one sees me in my close to bare state, and run back. The pattering of my sweaty feet sticking to the tiles is the only sound.

In the white room, the girl - Maralina - I presume, is still sleeping. I wonder why she’s on the floor.

I lay back on the mattress, any care of the yellowed bits fades away as the sleepiness grows. I think I’ll wait until she wakes up to ask her what happened. How we got here. How I know her. The rational part of my mind is muted as dreams begin to pull me in. I lose consciousness with the thought that I can wait just a little longer to figure it out.

When she wakes up, she’s always ready

She boils her two eggs

One for her

One for him

What should have been done is done

And she doesn’t have to look in the mirror

She knows she looks perfect.

While she whistles her sweet song, there is a faint sound

Like drums

Thud, thud, thud

She loves the banging, it adds to her song

She dances to her room,

Spinning around and around

Putting on her white dress

Adding pink lipstick and pinching her cheeks

From room to room she spins

Until she reaches the one that makes her grin

A boiled egg in her hand, she uses the other

The chain slides to the right

Click goes the lock

More sounds for her music

But the banging stops

There he is.

She rolls the egg to him

For a moment it’s silent

He asks her again, to please let him go

But she knows this is the only way he will stay

The whistling begins again

Followed by the click and the sound of the chain

A new sound now, a scream

That is just right for her song

So beautiful.

So loving.

#poetry

Stranieri. The Italian word for foreigners. Strangers, it sounds like. To be strange. Out of place, though not with the same implication as the English word for stranger. To be a stranger in English is to be frightening, to be avoided, to be unwelcomed, to not be trusted. To be referred to as not from here. Why does it seem so bad? To be not from here? Stranieri, they are neutral. They are travelers, they go to the university ”Università per Stranieri” in Perugia, Italy. They are welcome. To be strange I think is to be interesting. It is a curious word- stranger- and should signify a curious person. A bad stranger, well that should be another word all together. Words, the perspective of them, what a delightful thing to consider.