In the Zona Rosa I am nobody.
Just another human being.

Oh well.

My eye sockets feel infinite.

I stare at the jacaranda blossoms
and wonder how such a beautiful colour can exist.

My parents advise me not to go
to the flower market
because the area is feo.

My Mom is paranoid about men
grabbing my ass.

She tells me to speak my English quietly.

I am a quiet Anglophone
buying vanilla.

In Balbuena
they are burning animal bones 
to turn into dog food.

Fur real.

Driving down the dirty street in an Uber,
I drink complementary bottled water.

I open the window.
Chomp on mango gum.

In Coyoacan I eat a fruit
that literally has silver seeds.

I am going somewhere
but I don’t know where.

I am arousing this tormented insect
writhing somewhere inside of me.

This wilting jacaranda blossom.
This outdated software.

There are metallic helium balloons
in the shape of stars
hanging from the metal fence
surrounding a space
i do not enter.

I pick a fuchsia flower.
Stick in my scrunchie.

Accumulate sunburnt shoulders.
Smoke a Marlboro in the shade.

My legs are sexy
in Parque Espana.

On the swings,
in a playground for children.
The smell of sweaty skin on dirty metal.
My calves, flexing.

My aura is full of smog.

I worry about roaming charges,
data surcharge,
Wi-Fi coverage.

I am fantasizing about so much.
 

I am climbing the volcano of my passion
with this awful borrowed privilege. 

I am learning to love my body,
fantasizing about many men.

I am climbing the volcano
of my passion
with this awful borrowed privilege.