This is how I am,
no time for guilt,
playing with fate and quick to bore.
Promises that implode betrayed with neglect.
It’s useless to change me.
Certainty is a stranger to me
because of the panic love causes,
because of imagination,
because I’m only
My time is arranged in the last minute
or in premature withdrawals ,
in a sun that does not suffice
and in night that never ends,
in impetuous leaps between thirst and its slaking.
This how I am—
silence to reassemble my parts ,
a slow terror to shatter me,
silence and terror to heal me from a wicked memory
No hope that light will guide me.
I own nothing except my errors.