3 poems by andrea mena
A SMALL LIST OF THINGS I WOULD USUALLY HIDE
why do we hide under blankets
why do we hide our feelings
why do we hide easter eggs
hiding is the pragmatic response to fear of losing something
i hide a 73%
seventy-three percent of the time we are not what we project ourselves to be
seventy-three percent is the amount of time i spend trying to retain consciousness
seventy-three percent of men talk down to me when talking politics
in that 73% i also include hiding
- pretending to like eric clapton
- imagining having a threesome in which i didn’t feel insecure or "worse than the other person”
- not feeling part of a generation
- the dream that who we were on mdma was the real self
- our relationship having network connectivity problems
- fake orgasms
- and every time i have felt unnecessarily exposed
i am afraid of the time spent in a station, right before a train approaches and it feels like
the air it carries is going to hit you in the face
i always stand close to the platform because i want to find out how much of it i can feel
i am afraid of the insides of a plant
it takes a much larger amount of time to kill a plant than to kill yourself
every cell in a plant is independent to its other cells
every cell in a plant is unaware of your existence
every cell in a plant dies alone desynchronised with its co-cells
but every cell in my body will die holding hands
i am afraid of babies
i am afraid of babies feeling sad when they realise that
at one time nothing will be new or astounding or special
i am afraid of not covering their osmotic heads with bubblewrap so they can’t be
penetrated with hurt
i am afraid you will think this is stupid
i am afraid that people can have opinions on other people when they will never live inside
another human being’s head
ihide my fear of walking home alone at night
and my nostalgia for what never existed
most of all i hide that
i don’t want to be thrown away
I AM SEVERAL WOMEN
my blood is sin entering the world
my blood is a ravenous animal leashed inside me
my blood is a living painting
my blood is a city with no men in it
my blood is uninhibited abandon and hormonal cattiness
my blood is victory
my blood is a thousand witches chanting around a pink fire
my blood is like spitting in someone else’s mouth
my blood is what you are afraid of
my blood is not made of glitter
my blood is made of every time i have been raped
and every woman i have ever met
it makes me daring
it makes me solid
it makes me strong
my blood is the only real thing i am
my blood is an ocean
you don’t tell the ocean to behave
YOU MADE MY CHEST FEEL LIKE AN EMPTY CAR PARK
we drive apologetically while
i place myself in the center of a foreign place.
this place speaks. its voice offers no consecration.
it says many things about nothing.
it says: “this feels warm in the way setting things on fire feels warm”.
it says: “i am so scared to lose you i can’t feel your body next to my body”.
it says: “i no longer feel like a poem. i can’t live inside you forever”.
it repeats everything i always say in a way you’ve never heard before.
i tried to push through the waters of a lake instead i ended up here.
you were the sky before the sky was a sky of unglued ghosts.
i am looking at your body reflecting the moon.
i am recording this.
i am thinking:
“i exist i exist i exist”.
i am thinking:
“say something i will remember”.
there are two hundred dogs dying right now.
our hands have engaged in the most vulnerable connection.
everything is happening so much.
we are two tsunamis of nostalgia
splash-fighting each other with baby-sized dinosaur arms.
we are an abandoned fair, left untouched for five years,
its lights still painfully lit.
we can't be together lest we eat each other.
we wish for painless separation,
for our fingers merging with the sky in the middle of a rainstorm with thunder,
and for the way we could sleep before we knew things about each other.
i will draw new eye sockets on your face.
staring at me will feel infinite.