To Those Who Have Lost Everything by Francisco X. Alarcón

How quickly everything turns around, more so when I’m feeling thankful. But I suppose that’s life, no? I am here, sitting in my office, in a puddle of despair and rain, which has seeped into the room when I wasn’t looking. The rain, leaking from the old pipe beside my writing desk, running down my blue walls. There’s another storm coming, and it’s not even going to hit the city, yet my office is flooded and everywhere is wet and submerged. I am sitting with my feet up, afraid to even move. I am paralyzed by this, and this is stupid, writing, because I don’t know what to do. I need time to process and I don’t know what the fuck to do. Wait, let me think.

I suppose I should gingerly stand up and see if the water has touched anything electrical. A glance behind my back shows that some of my books stacked on the floor have been saved, but I suppose some weren’t. I don’t know how to feel about this. The boxes containing my work which sit directly beside the pipe is damaged, I suppose. I suppose, I suppose, I suppose. I can’t get my brain to move and think fast enough. I haven’t had any sleep in days, I am running very low on energy and patience and I have tons of deadlines still. What am I sitting here for. I should begin cleaning up. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I have a massive headache. I can’t believe I’m still talking. Damn damn damn.

Sometimes I wish everything I’ve ever written is a lie.

To Those Who Have Lost Everything
Francisco X. Alarcón

crossed
in despair
many deserts
full of hope

carrying
their empty
fists of sorrow
everywhere

mouthing
a bitter night
of shovels
and nails

“you’re nothing
you’re shit
your home’s
nowhere”—

mountains
will speak
for you

rain
will flesh
your bones

green again
among ashes
after a long fire

started in
a fantasy island
some time ago

turning
Natives
into aliens

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