The Anatomy of An Aguamala

My heart has a certain essence of secability, it’s my achilles heel. I imagine it’s a paper thin, translucent honey-colored heart. Dripping with opalescent blood like shiny flakes of baklavah in my chest. Sometimes little bees flit by, their senticous tails snagging nerve fibers and popping my cells like bubble wrap. I’m unraveling.

I should probably build a wall. My shaky hands weave a hornet’s nest, chanting broken sioux medicine spells mingled with harry potter magic to heal my open soul. It’s voluntarily so: I can’t help but let people say they love me. I believe everyone who whisper those three secret words. Aortas and ventricles are festering wounds: little sugar crystals pour from my torn heart like sand from a shattered hourglass. My chest cavity holds a marmalade heart, squishy and human and nettled with shards of glass and intrusive pins from unsuccessful affairs. A washed up whale carcus, wittled away by sands and sea til I’m just a castle of bones.

I’m sleepy and silly. Nostalgia comes to mind but these words are too pretty to be my actual memories.