I don’t feel soft or attractive, or a woman.
I don’t feel beautiful, or lovable.
I feel predictable and pathetic.
Plan B, the thing you do if you have nothing else to do.
I don’t feel that the best is still to come,
I had the best, and the best is gone.
(Don’t get all happy, it was not you).
The best was that kiss at 21, my laugh at 17 and 22,
the friends I had at 18 and the plane rides that took me faraway.
The best was thinking that I had a future,
that was somewhat related to you, but not you.
The best was the rain falling over me and thinking that I wanted to live in Montevideo forever.
The best was a soft schmetterling whisper in my ear.
The best is long gone.
The best was my skin at 16, silently being discovered…
And I don’t feel my skin as skin anymore,
or that my words are interesting; they must not be, they must not be, they can’t be, because, well, because, how can they be?
And I don’t feel up for what is to come.
And I don’t feel much at all,
I just don’t.