You asked for time.
You told me you needed a breather.
I tried to understand.
I swallowed the smoke.
And I smelled your blood.
I had to lose everything.
Sleeping on the subway.
I wanted to get over it.
I vomited your surname.
And I became cursed.
Because of your memory.
I can no longer be a good man.
Smoking alone.
The water claims my body.
There are no secrets anymore.
Maximiliano Guzmán’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart Pulp, HAD, Expat Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Burial Magazine, and Don Not Submit.