by Kayle Rene Texidor
East Village, Manhattan
You said you knew me, but I couldn’t place you. Hippie squatter kid, you were friendly.
You weren’t scared of a Puerto Rican in a bit of eyeliner.
I’ve always been shy, born with a frown that often earned me a “you should smile more!”
as if that would make me happier.
No one had ever picked me first before,
not for the right reasons anyway… not until you.
I was desperate to feel nothing, and you were yearning to feel something;
we made easy friends. You lived in a squat on 2nd St and Avenue C, and soon
it was like I lived there too.
Turns out white parents don’t care if you sneak out at night.
They don’t care if you smoke weed either.
The L.E.S comes alive at night, an array
of colors, NYC natives, and yuppies crossing paths.
We pay a gutter punk $5 to buy us Fourloko
The music radiates from the bars as we smoke a spliff
blowing in the direction of those coughing
they must have forgotten where they moved.
The smell of dollar pizza makes my mouth wet, and we scrounge our last few cents together
passing by unlicensed piercing shops. They gesture us in ‘cause they know our faces.
But we no longer have any money.
Holding hands as we walk, we head to the East River
If you hop the fence by Stuytown, there’s a spot with a good view.
I still don’t know how we found it, but we couldn’t have been the first.
Nothing here is undiscovered.
We dart through some bushes, and suddenly, the air is fresh
well, it’s fresh if you’re lucky.
You can see most of Greenpoint from here
and once, I saw a jellyfish.
Feet dangling over the edge, it’s easy to imagine falling in
or jumping.
But soon, we get too drunk, and the building lights
turn into glimmers in our watery eyes.
That was the night you told me what happened,
and I told you it wasn’t your fault.
That you weren’t alone and that you didn’t deserve it.
I promised you we would be happy one day.
I meant it. I still mean it.
Bushwick, Brooklyn
Soon thirteen became sixteen, and we got fake IDs.
Vip sections with blaring lights
men buzz around us
ready to suck our youth.
But we yearn for something else.
Hands roaming on glistening skin
we dance
and suddenly, it’s just you and me.
It’s always just you and me.
Like that time we walked from LIC before
all the high-rises
to the Lower East Side
after a rave
or when
we built a bonfire and slept at the beach.
Memories would be
nothing
without you.
Now it’s 4 am and the streets are wet with early morning rain
and so are your lips.
We pay our respects to the local Deli man,
but we’re just here
for the bodega cat.
Bacon, egg, and cheese in hand
we head to your place.
Your parents got divorced, and you hated your mom
but I always liked her.
She paid my ticket for
hopping the turnstile when
my parents
wouldn’t.
The price for getting caught,
I guess.
Plus, she’s gay too.
We never went to my place.
I was ashamed
of Harlem
of the projects
of my parents.
You were my first
sleepover.
First thing
I wasn’t ashamed of.
First lots of things.
But then you
left and you took all our—
your friends with you.
He was all I had
and you introduced me
to him too.
I bet you don’t think about me.
and that’s ok.
I hope you’re happy.
I meant it. I still mean it.
Kayla Rene Texidor is a second-generation Puerto Rican writer from Spanish Harlem pursuing a degree in Creative Writing. Passionate about exploring identity and heritage, she draws inspiration from Taino cultural myths, aiming to publish a sci-fi/fantasy series one day. Kayla’s work often reflects the complexities of being Latina, Queer, and from the inner city, weaving narratives of resilience, cultural pride, and self-discovery. With a deep interest in art, technology, and storytelling, she aspires to do work that amplifies Latinx voices and myths. Beyond writing, she enjoys creating art, cosplay, gaming, and spending time with her cat.
Texidor’s “Two Girls and New York” is a winner of The Lit’s 2025 LGBTQIA+ Poetry Award. Also read Texidor’s poem “Two Girls and New York” elsewhere in the issue.
Photo, Untitled by dragonflaiii (CC) 2.0.
