By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal
TWO LANGUAGES Long ago I spoke only one language. Then, in another country, I learned to speak another. Honest, it is as if I learned overnight. I was afraid in a week I would speak more of the new language because I had to keep up. It was easy at seven years old. For weeks I did not tell anyone. It was not right to keep the secret. One day I laughed at a joke in the new language and I was found out. The years went by and I learned big words I seldom use. I have learned to have a short memory. The more you keep inside, the better. I was American in both countries. Some people do not know that. GO ON PRETENDING I go on pretending I have one more day promised. I close my eyes imagining this heart will never falter. I do not plan to lose or fall short on my bets. Like the fountain of youth lying beyond. It is not far from reach. I go on pretending there will be a next chance. Lying on my deathbed I am far from concerned. I do not let death in. YOU ARE ZERO Does it have to get so personal? Stop coming around to my location. I completed my sentence. You do not own my undivided attention. I have real plans that includes just me. My status is lone wolf if you need to know. Do I have to repeat myself? I will mail you a copy of my emancipation. Take my name out of your mind and mouth. I do not care to share my time with you. I do not want to get into it. You are not a part of my life anymore. You are zero. If none of this resonates, you must be a bigger head case than you ever been. I need to be getting on and this is where I get off. You get on with your life as well.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a Mexican-born author, who resides in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Unlikely Stories.
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