“Get up,” she says. “You’ve been sleeping through your own life.”
Her voice is gravel and honey, a shattered lullaby from the gutter of a city that never loved her. She stands at the foot of my bed, chewing gum like a prophecy, nails painted the color of a warning. Pendeja Puta Me Despierta
Me despierta. And yes—she does wake me. “Get up,” she says
Puta. Not a curse, but a crown of broken bottles and bruised roses. She wears it like a war song, hips swaying to a rhythm that cracks the pavement. chewing gum like a prophecy