The French Toast Has Burned, I Have Killed

Someone, and I'm Sorry

By Anthony Aguero

Let me scrape off the top. I scrape the top
and I’m not sure where the sadness goes
but let’s drown it with maple syrup,
the cheap kind that mom bought me.
It takes ten seconds to remember where I was
going with this. A late night dance in the
garden of love is what I remember,
the dog licking my hand until I’m awake,
and I realize I never knew much of you.
Someone once burnt the garden,
and screamed into my mouth,
and there was so much to live for again.
It takes ten seconds to recall happiness,
so finish your plate. I’m awake again.
I always leave the bar alone and that’s
the best place for me to be.
I wake up in the morning and maybe I’ll
make some French toast for me.

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My Therapist Says My Family Suffers From

Intergenerational Abuse

By Anthony Aguero

I hold onto what has hurt me –
hand gripping the blade of things.
I hold onto my breath long enough
to remember that for now I’m safe.
Mom told me a story once that
turned the world cold,
literally, a fire breathing ice with each
word that fell from her mouth.
Her words making my world still enough
to hear the pin from her teeth hit the floor.
 
Sometimes I wish I could pause long
enough to remember it wasn’t the first
time someone fell into the sun –
a history not destroyed.
It’s the middle of summer, Baja adjacent,
and even the shade doesn’t offer a promise.
I dangle off my own shadow,
dripping spit,
so maybe I’m not so alone.
 
The body can only hold so much depravity
until I’m lying next to the boy whose tongue
I sprinkle salt on and say Here’s the heart.
A diagnosis of honey clotting inside of me,
you sweet boy.
The body can only hold so much history until
I have expanded into an empire
that will always fall.
 
I keep listening to stories around open windows,
a machete pressed against my back.

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Litany In Which Certain Things Cannot

Be Fixed

By Anthony Aguero

Cut the jalapenos with a bread knife and
shove your filthy fingers in my mouth,
and spit in it like you mean it.
 
Treat me like a broken home, and
fuck me
I can’t keep doing this anymore.
 
Call that serious injury lawyer and tell them
I’m bleeding out onto the lawn,
and tell them I am sorry for hurting me.
 
I’m trying to teach you how to love me.
Scream into my open mouth and
watch what grows.
 
Fix me, I meant fuck me, I meant don’t bother –
I’m tired of thinking about dad
and how he didn’t love me enough.
 
Mom taught me to de-stem the cilantro
before cutting into it, and
that’s practical,
 
but I’m chopping its entirety to poison you.
Instead, you keep growing into a strong boy
who cannot stop denying the moon in me.
 
I don’t know when I’ll ever learn I’m supposed
to tell you how to hold me right.

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Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared in The Bangalore Review. He grew up in Holtville, CA. Anthony’s writing shines a light on substance abuse, given his history. He celebrates being clean for 5+ years.