No I am not crazy.
I will not get a tattoo.
No, I won’t go to New York by myself,
I love you.
Even though I want to feel the prick of the needle as the bluebird, the azulao, takes form on my pectoral.
And the heart on my bicep proclaims my love of Mom, even as I admit the times she didn’t deserve it.
And I don’t mean that I would run away, grown-ass man that I am, and let the diesel breath of Manhattan fill my nostrils alone.
Sometimes the Rebel simply plots.