Leah Martinez

4 am 

when el cuco attacks

your chest tightens, eyes are aloof gulfs of water, cerebrum unable to process the events

your flesh becomes dewey like the slender grass in the sunken morning

you can’t comprehend each step that drags your drunken soul to the beat-up bathroom.

His blood eyes follow you diligently

as your walking begins to glitch.

He slowly begins to follow your steps

with fearful elegance.

You try to close your fragile eyes,

the ones that should be taking you into the stress-free world of precious slumber. 

The faceless figure manages to slip past the calloused door,

You pathetically search for a drop of help.

The endless calls of “Mami ayudame, ya no puedo” 

are neglected with glorious ease.

Your withering poor soul has been infected
by feelings of anxiety and depression. 

Your emotions are broken down 

into bits and pieces of natural blooming panic attacks.

Headaches are apart of your to-do list, 

the constant pounding in your head 

is an annoying melody stuck on replay.

The miserable bottle of Advil is a cookie jar, 

chanting your name, begging for you to take one… two… maybe three?… maybe four?

Its pied piper effect causes you to slither towards the deadly container.

Tell me, why are you like this?

Why do you always have to cry for every single little thing?

Why does this have to happen to you?

Why do you always have to feel pain?

Tell me, why does el cuco do this to you?