What I really want is to be lost in a moment where sadness doesn't creep between the ridges of my fingertips.
Where the strings attached to my soul aren't being yanked to the support of the ground.
A moment where my heart doesn't feel like crumbling from the weight of my chest caving in.
I want happiness to be the one invited guest who lingers past the bend of the moon.
Who tickles the seams of my limbs and provides the gust beneath my cemented feet.
What I want is a moment in which I don't feel as if I'm being punched in my face with undeniable sadness.
Where I don't feel like I'm falling completely apart.
I don't want potions or spells for the trickery of bliss.
The delusion of crawling away beneath the darkness of the covers, only to be found between weighted sheets disguised as silk linens.
To hold on to the belief of tomorrow without the existence of today.
To believe of who I am and not what I am.
For what I am is just sadness.
Simply undone that doesn’t do living, hardly does breathing.
Hardly knows how to be human.
I’ve stumbled upon these words more times than not. Practiced them in front of the bathroom mirror.
Made the same mistakes over and over.
See I’m living but I’m truly not living.
Making each day to noon and then never made it past the hill. And then here.
Here is where I stopped the poem when things got a bit tad too real.
Patricia Orozco is undone but only put together by the stanzas of poetry. She is a woman. Thirty, unknown, slightly unseen. She is living each and every day.
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