Vain
"Every tattoo is a story. What's yours?" she asks.
"Todo fue en vano," I say.
Wasn't that all it was?
All that's left of me now is meaninglessness,
and all that's left of you is an abandoned past.
If not for you, what was this life made for?
What use was this skin if not to remember your touch?
Why was breath placed within me if not to lose itself at the sight of you?
And what purpose had this heart if it was never to fit in your embrace?
Witness how my face has grown crooked from your indifference,
how I have shorn my hair and scattered it among memories of your hands,
of the way you would caress it
and claim it as yours.
"Without you" was once an imaginary illusion.
Now it is a salient reality.
So I remind my flesh
of how worthless you've made me.
Todo fue en vano.
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