Anthony Aguero

Three Poems

My Dad Wants To Show Me What Real Meth Is


Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared in the Bangalore Review and The Temz Review

Instagram: @shesnotinsorry

When I close my eyes
I am in a room
colored in blue,
look closely and watch the lilies
sprout off of my heart. 

Does my sweat taste like
violent petals, I mean violet?
I mean does my root-out as if
reaching for air? 

I crouch, I lean, I am praying
against an altar
to things forgotten:
Names you called me behind
my back. 

Memories like a punched-
wall only a father knows. 

Scars a scent only the dogs can smell.
The sun sets behind my back
and I am still waiting for it to
rise again.



I Built This Space

A poem which you can never
run me out of. 

My dad chased me out of the
house with a machete,
this is a true story.

I have lost my mind in the
passenger seat next to a sad man
humming my same tune. 

I dip honey into my eyes
to see if I could ever 
seem sweet again. 

My Tía’s hair lies on a towel,
I am nine with an iron in hand,
and brushing it straight

like all the magic in the world –
this is that poem.
I built this space, 

a poem which wraps me in its’
curling iron
because the night is young 

and I have much to live for.
Or was it to love for?
I touch the sun on my back. 

I talk in wisps of neon –
like all the magic in the world.
This is that poem.


This Is Me

This is me out of place.
Those aren’t tears, that’s my body
being more water than human,
and I give too much credit
to the gravitational pull of the moon
but I can map out where
the pains began and
where I overflow.
Or how I’ve lived in a desert
and sometimes a kiss
was enough for the green, better thing.
‘Cause I look good. My brown skin
against a pale-blue sky
is a canvas reflecting light
and a joke rattles somewhere
deep inside of me
and the moon is on it too.
And this is me out of place
but you never bothered to go looking. 

This is me in heartbreak.
This is me throwing a fit.
This is me foot in mouth.
This is me thinking I need love.
This is me dehydrated.
This is me at the drunken hour.
This is me writing a stupid poem.
This is me vomiting.
This is me not knowing when to stop.
This is me.
This is me.
This is me.
This is me.

© The Acentos Review 2020