Me Muero Por Hacerlo Bien

Now I understand how immense
is the small space of someone who loves.
Of someone who lives and dies for who they want,
even if nothing is expected afterwards,
and their gaze arrives and you fall apart again.
Now I'm starting to feel
that only time
can transform.
I'm taking stock
of the infinity of mistakes that maybe,
someday soon,
if only with the gestures
that accompany speaking,
I'll make myself understand,
because I don't understand myself.
And I don't know very well
what I keep inside,
if it's pretty or ugly,
big or very small,
broken, whole.
I'm dying to do it right.
Thick clouds
at the top of my head
accompany me.
Clean, clear lightning bolts,
long from a sun I don't see
although I know they're there.
And being distracted is
a little strange
but human, I know.
But you see
that I'm not patient.
You already see
that there's a snake
that entwines my soul,
that squeezes tight
bites with its teeth.
I'm dying to do it right.
And I want to understand
why I don't understand myself.
And I don't know very well
what I keep inside,
if it's pretty or ugly,
big or very small,
broken, whole.
I'm dying to do it right.