• Daniella Pineda



My spring in Europe, what a time. From Monday strolls in Alcalá to Friday stares at Fontana di Trevi. That spring was a dream, the one songs are written about and dramas are produced by. I spent a cold February morning at Museo del Prado and stared at Picasso for forty minutes before I understood its appeal. A king of cubism and a storyteller at heart. I am afraid my intellect with art wouldn’t help that night.

Roma, Italia: Walking down Spanish steps, you looked at me differently... Through gritted teeth, you spoke to me, and tasteless lips were the ones that touched me.

Fast forward a week.

Madrid, Spain; I thought we wouldn’t be caught by rain, we sprinted down the subway in search of shelter... Even if we made it I saw it in your eyes you had made a decision and that’s when tragedy began. You faded away like the paint on the streets of Toledo, I chose myself rather than to try and save you. Like Picasso’s “The Tragedy” from 1903 you held a secret underneath, somewhere deep down I knew that was the reason I fought not to drown.

You slipped from my hold before you were even told that our history would always

behold...passion, darkness, and love. I bet you would’ve never thought you’d get me to waste my ink on you, on us... truth is this a fragment of a tragedy, not even Shakespeare would dare to get on.


I live with ghosts. I hear their footsteps at night, I hear their cries at dawn. None knock on my door, none acknowledge my presence. This equanimity is deadly. I can’t spend one more second under this spell, they haunt me without trying, they take my life away while in this draining state. Who knows maybe tomorrow they’ll finally open the gate, and take me away.


Every time you leave a part of me is tore, you have tangled your way in my heart and there is no way I think you could ever get out. I am afraid you’ll never come back and leave me here to burn...& it terrifies me that my ashes will be too weak to pull the Fenix out of me.


How can people know me? When I am not even aware of who I am? I wake up and don’t recognize my body, I stare at the mirror and can’t find myself. I feel so far away from my persona it’s a lie for them to call themselves my friends, it’s a favor to let them stay and believe they know who I truly am.

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Anyone that has lived to become aware of worldly affairs, he who has grown out of his adolescence would be no stranger to stratus in society, akin to different sized boxes attempting to squeeze and bi