The doctor asks my mother why I broke. She blames our neighborhood. El barrio with all the fast girls, the bodegas and the men on the corner playing dominoes until the sun yells Capicu. In her version of the story I am a lonely race car, engine on, wasting gas on men who will never love me.
The doctor asks me why I broke. I blame my mother and the frostbite in her fingers. I explain that I am just like her, sick and cold. He wants to meet with us both. I tell him he can find her body in the refrigerator next to the insulin. In my version of the story I am a lonely race car, engine off, who knows that waiting for someone to love you will drive you crazy.
by Elisabet Velasquez
Elisabet Velasquez is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. She is a loud Latina who fears this does not translate enough on the page. She is currently working on her first book of poetry.