The Anatomy of An Aguamala

Where do you walk on sunny times/ When the rivers gleam and the buildings shine/ How do you feel goin’ up hallowed halls/ And the summer clothes brighten gloomy halls

Where do you fit in zzzzip magazine/ Where the past is the hero and the present a queen/ Just tell me right now where do you fit in/ With mud in your eye and a passion for gin /

And they’re all in love.

The thrum of whining dance music carried by chilled, icy winds sent my fingers, toes, chattering lips, creviced mind into a sort of dizzying paralysis. I needed air, sweet summer honeysuckle with warm bitter grass and light. Instead my suckling, gasping lips met pungeant rum-soiled streets and the vertiginous odor of confusion:

Four hundred hormonal, sacrificial teenagers, crazed by this rare taste of freedom from our monotonously classroom-confined lives. Hungry for the plea, “I’m only human!” Guilty, the jury of teachers agrees. But poor grades, restless hearts and listless minds are all incriminating evidence.

To escape we’ve become animals. Acrimonious wines burn the baby-pink, unwilling flesh of our throats. They’re hungry for virgin blood; for sex and lust and life.

Oh how pretty I’ll bleed.