A KILLER’S DAUGHTER

Dad, what is it like to be a killer?
Let me tell you what it’s like to be your daughter.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
Depriving your own wife
of her own life.
Depriving your own children
of their mother’s love.
Depriving the world of a dazzling light.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
It took Him seven days to create the world,
and you, one, to destroy your children’s.
Your ungodly powers brought your offspring
to their knees, forced to burry their own heart.
A red rose and a handful of dirt as a goodbye.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
Your children wear sadness like stains in a table cloth.
Stains in the form of lost childhoods.
Stains in the form of unsent letters to heaven.
Disguised stains only detectible to those
keen eyes able to decipher them.

I don’t know what it’s like to be a killer,
but this is what being your daughter is like.
I love you, dad.
And I mean it.

WHEN PEPE DID MY HAIR

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Pepe, around the age he started doing my hair.

It was 1995 in Celaya, Mexico. I lived with my mom, three older brothers, twin sister y de vez en cuando with my dad.

With the sunrise, came routine. Mi Ama trabajaba bien y con orgullo; so, she was the first to leave the house. Next, were Carlos and Gera; they worked to help with the gastos. Which meant that my brother Pepe was left responsible for my sister and me.

We went to la escuela de la tarde. To get ready for school, Pepe used a trastecito with water, a comb, and a sliced lime cut in half. After many enigmatic twists, he managed to fasten the ponytail and tame my unruly baby hair with lime as the stylizing balm. It was no easy feat for either of us; and, more often than not, we ended mad at each other.

Fast-forward to 2011 Continue reading