roll credits, they are not coming
gaby ortiz
@gabyort1z 

David Lynch doesn’t make movies—

he makes fever dreams that crawl out of your mouth

Staircases that go nowhere.

Hallways that smell like the body you left behind.

CUT TO:

Me, six years old, Ecuador,

holding a rosary like pepper spray,

abuela whispering about shadows

that don’t belong to anyone.

Camera pans under the bed—

finds my father’s voice, playing backwards,

still telling me to keep quiet.

The shadows already know.

JUMP CUT:

Canada. Snow erases everything

except the sound of my teeth grinding.

Latin girl turned ghost in a whiteout.

Frost blooms on my eyelids.

I keep walking—

if I stop, the furniture laughs.

CLOSE-UP:

Diner glass.

My mouth open, no sound.

Reflection of a man holding a knife

or just a bad idea.

CUT TO:

Red curtains.

A room with no corners.

My life plays on a loop—

me running,

me not running fast enough,

me swallowing the scream before it ruins the take.

FLASH:

Hands. Door. Tuesday. Bleach and wine.

A phone ringing—

or maybe the soundtrack to a girl

who never got to be a girl.

Kennedy Ryon’s voice.A blade of warmth in the freeze.

The sound that says

even in the loop,

you are still alive.

Winter turns to applause—

the only applause I’ve ever believed in.

SMASH CUT:

Hallway. Endless.

Feet bleeding into carpet.

Phone rings.

You answer—

your own voice: *Run. Run. Run.*

The reel stutters.

Projector coughs.

Coffee. Blood. Tuesday.

Hands. Door.

Credits never roll.

Hallway waits.

Phone keeps ringing.

And this time—

you run.

Or maybe you don’t.

But the sound of surviving

Gaby Ortiz, Ecuador-born, Canadian-adopted, New York-infused. Poet, muaic addict, storyteller, and breaker of quiet rules. Writes the poems that ask questions you’re too polite to voice, part-time daydreamer, full-time word arsonist.