Me Gustas.

Busy train station with the people as a blur, unaware of anyone else.
Me gustas.
I do.
I like your ignorance.
It’s very refreshing; even to me,
Who is on the outside.

It must be nice though, not knowing.
It really must be nice.
There’s a difference, however, between our silent killers.
I know that what I don’t know is out there,
And it kills me softly and slowly.

Pero tu?

Are you aware that you don’t know what you don’t know?
Are you aware that it is out there?
Are you aware of the damage it does?
Does it occur to you that your ignorance harms me?

Si, yo.

Didn’t see that coming did you?
You never do, but it does.
It hurts me.
That you think there’s nothing wrong,
It hurts me.
When you don’t see that there’s a problem,
Me lastima.

We see different things
When we look in the mirror;
We feel different things 
When we walk out the door;
But you don’t know that you don’t know what you don’t know.
I do.
And it hurts me.
Your ignorance hurts me.


Pero aun me gustas.
I do.
Me gustas.

6 Comments

  1. Your poem starts off as liking the ignorance and then you end up saying it hurts you. What’s that mean you like what ends up hurting you?

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