Margo’s journal entry

I’m working on a character for a play about trans people, family and friendship. Their name is Margo. I wrote an piece as if I were them. I like it.

Margo is sitting on stairs made of rock, up at the hill of a mountain where the church is. 

I remember waking up late, surely after 12, all wasted. My head heavy and my heart a little broken. I remember climbing the stairs to the mirador del pueblo almost crawling but laughing with Jazmín, we hold hands and she is like chica, todo me da vueltas, and we sit at the stairs and eat soup very hot with fat and ají to overcome the sickness, and we watch all the little houses and the wind caresses our checks and we eat in silence. We both know that our life is mierda and we have lost the path but we rejoice somehow in the messiness of it, somehow we feel freedom, a scary freedom that’s almost only scarcity maybe just illusion because there is nothing to hold on to now, we barely could pay the fucking soup and I have a hickey in my neck but I don’t remember, and Jazmín has her legs all scratch but we don’t remember, we just eat our hot soup in silence while horns and birds and people talking loud distract us from our sadness. I don’t know what would happen to me if Jazmín leaves, I don’t know what would I do with myself, what truth will come out if I stay alone and the noise of my head starts to whisper the reality of what I did, of what I’ve done these years living here. I don’t want to hear. Quédate Jazmín hasta la otra fiesta, stay until I drown consciousness and tomorrow we climb the mountain holding hands and laughing. Stay with me until the next soup, just stay.