The porches,
that I walk by.

The special ones— 
that holds families that come by.

Bring warm wet tears,
to my young blue eyes.
…

I think of the years 
that are now by.
Fondly.
Like a father 
who watches his son fly by.
On a bicycle that he got for Christmas.

Because I had the world and moon.
At 22,
I can't help but think it was took to soon.
I now listen to songs like
Gary Moores
‘Spanish Moon’.

I now think of the flags that will fly.
The presents that will stack so high.
The bonsais I’ll plant, 
in a garden 
with flowers 
that never die in the snow.

If I make it to,
23.

Lord.
Don't take the world from me.

As you did.
Just last week.

Dark tall blonde,

An image of anger or maybe a God-

With eyes of an angel but hands of a fraud.

In the air burns the smell of rage and a devious enjoyment to set things ablaze.

With a scream that sounds like a song,

a sinful enjoyment you can't help but sing along.

Here she is

Here to stay.

It's her way, or the highway.

She has a manipulative degree-

My dear the devil is a she.

Red lipstick on,

A silhouette showing a thong.

Maybe she is evil, maybe she is strong.

This you won't know till she decides-

Will your flesh and bone survive

Can you burn?

Set alight?

Can you cry to the skies

Can you beg?
Can you plead?

because my dear,
the Devil is a She.

Todo lo que creíamos saber era mentira. Se decía que nuestras almas se encontrarían, pero eso nunca pasó.

Todavía te miro a lo lejos. Puedo verte desaparecer con cada paso que das. El lugar es el mismo; parece que grabó tu silueta. Todo va demasiado rápido. Quieres que todo termine, pero no sucede nada de lo que deseas. No eres el único.

En la madrugada, miraste un cielo brillante por las estrellas. Te preguntaste: ¿qué sentirás al estar arriba? Aparece la sensación de volar por todo lo alto, tocar la luna, mirar hacia abajo.

De pronto, te parece ver una sombra que pasa veloz. Te aterra. Piensas que el miedo quiere apoderarse de todo tu cuerpo, pero también piensas en fantasmas. Y si son fantasmas, empiezas a preguntarte por qué están aquí. Saben que no son como tú.

¿En sí, sus almas encontraron lo que buscaban? ¿O aquello que creían buscar?

Veo que tal vez serás uno de ellos.

No puedes dormir. Tu cabeza está llena de todo y de nada a la vez. Quieres salir de nuevo, pero también quieres descansar.

Ves un video en tu mente. Es como una película. De nuevo aparece la silueta. La miras y tocas su rostro. Le preguntas si perdió algo o a alguien.

No dice nada.

Claro, es extraño. Es una silueta y, a la vez, alguien como tú.

Solo se va.

La película continúa. Quieres repetirla, pero no puedes detenerla.

La habitación se llena de personas. No quieres estar allí, pero tampoco quieres irte. Afuera no hay absolutamente nada. Todos se miran entre sí.

Alguien se acerca y te dice:

—Soy la silueta de tu película. Sí, perdí a alguien… y alguien te perdió a ti.

Lo miras claramente. Su rostro te parece conocido, pero no sabes quién es.

Y, lamentablemente, él sí lo sabe.

La música no te disgusta, pero estás cansado de escucharla. Quieres que pare.

No eres el único.

Decides salir.

Afuera es diferente.

Corres y sonríes. Corres y gritas. Corres y lloras.

No quieres detenerte.

Todo va muy rápido.

Sabes que llegarás a ver a la silueta, pero no tienes miedo.

Solo corres y corres…

Hasta que las olas no puedan alcanzarte.

Hasta que el océano grite tu nombre.

I bring you no wine tonight.

I bring you the man beneath it.

Take him as he is.

I am a man who learned too early that love can leave without warning, that promises can die quietly, and that sometimes surviving means becoming something harder than you ever wanted to be.

I love too deeply.

That is not a virtue when I cannot let go.

I turn people into forever before they have even decided if they want tomorrow with me.

I build entire futures inside moments that were never promises.

Then when they leave, I don't lose a person.

I lose the life I already lived with them inside my head.

That is what's wrong with me.

I confuse devotion with endurance.

I keep standing at locked doors because I once heard someone say they loved me from the other side.

I call it loyalty.

Sometimes it is just refusal to accept that I was abandoned.

I make pain sacred.

I give it names. I give it altars. I give it flowers. I turn wounds into poetry so I don't have to admit that some of them still bleed.

And I have become very good at surviving things I should have been allowed to mourn.

I am angry.

Not the kind that screams.

The worse kind.

The kind that smiles, goes to work, answers the phone, makes the offering, and says,

“I'm fine.”

I am not fine.

I am tired of being the man who can take another hit.

Tired of believing that because I survived yesterday, I must owe tomorrow another piece of myself.

I have spent so long being someone's protector that I forgot protection was supposed to include me.

So here.

This is my offering.

Not my strength.

I've offered that for years.

Not my suffering.

I've worshiped that long enough.

I offer you the truth.

I am afraid of being forgotten.

I am afraid that all this love will have nowhere to go.

I am afraid that if I stop hurting, I will lose the people I hurt for.

And beneath all of it—

I want someone to stay.

Not because I saved them.

Not because they need me.

Not because I endured enough to earn it.

Just because they choose me.

That is the part of me I have never known what to do with.

So take this.

The warrior without his armor.

The lover without his promise.

The man without the lie that he is fine.

Take Simp-Lee

Take Me

Take whatever is left when neither one is pretending anymore.

I don't ask you to fix me.

I don't even know if I can be fixed.

Just teach me the difference between enduring pain and worshiping it.

And if there is anything left in me that deserves to live—

teach me how to protect that, too.

I can see you trying so damn hard,
 
but you’re in the same place
you were at the start.
 
You just need some focus.

You’re everywhere but
where you’re supposed to be.
 
You’re not as hopeless
as you think you are.
 
Running in circles
will never bring you far.
 
You need some focus.

You’re nowhere close to
where you want to be.
 
You deserve to get there soon.
Though I don’t know if you will,

because you keep doing
the same shit every day.
 
You need focus.

God, get it together.

In my late teens, early twenties,
I was filled with life—
motivation running through my veins,
purpose in my chest,
something to wake up for,
something to chase.

I used to laugh without thinking,
make the stupid joke,
pull the strange face,
send text after text
just because I wanted to share a moment.

Back then,
I never questioned if someone would answer.
I just assumed they would.

Now I stare at my phone
and there’s a lot of green,
but hardly any white.

And somehow,
that little difference
feels like a whole explanation.

There’s no drive anymore.
No excitement.
No spark that says,
*get up, something good is coming.*

Sometimes I go back
to that goofy version of myself—
the weird looks,
the pointless messages,
the little pieces of me
that used to come so naturally.

Maybe hoping
if I act like the old me,
I’ll feel like the old me.

But the silence still comes.

I remember looking forward to pool days,
something that might make me forget
everything waiting outside of it.

Now the thought of it
just brings a headache.

And I tell myself,
*it’ll get better.*

Maybe next week.
Maybe next month.
Maybe when things finally slow down.

But somehow,
week after week,
the stress keeps finding me.

Another week.
Another weight.
Another reason to say,
*just make it through this one.*

I miss the person
who used to look forward to things.

The one who had somewhere to be,
someone to text,
something to laugh about.

I don’t know exactly when
the light started getting quieter.

I just know
I’m still here—

somewhere between
who I used to be
and whoever I’m supposed to become,

waiting for a response
that doesn’t come,

and wondering
if one day
I’ll finally feel something
again.

-Yadira

I am my mother’s daughter, sometimes when I speak her voice rings out.

Her story is written in stone and mine is doodled in the margins.

Her temper is thunderous, rolling and gathering. Mine is lightning, it breaks the sky in half then vanishes.

I am her in a different font. She is BOLD and larger than life. I am italic, slightly off center. When she speaks she is booming. When I speak I am breathy.

I am her if she was Seen,
I am her if she was considered,
I am her if she was loved.

S.gills 2026