Mariana Chajon

I finally told you

You cried,

denied,

pushed,

even forgot.

you take us on a family holiday

to the capital,

the parliament.

we cross the street and a portal opens

to a land of domination, erasure, and capitulation.



a group of people holding a bunch of signs

written on them: god doesn’t love me


hot thick salty sweat on my face as the sun tans my skin,

I look down at my clothes

and feel fear in the back of my head

all my life,

itching twenty years later



and the sweat starts burning my forehead

it leaves a mark made of ashes in the form of a cross

I turn to leave but you hold me back,

as if walking through this is a rite of passage

that will get me closer to you.


so holy, so effortlessly.



my brother leads the way out

i will never forget how your face looked as you cried

even if you apologized

one time

the image comes back

it’s hard to believe

it took me a long time to unlearn

what you taught me at sixteen


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