Aria

Dalla finestra si vede
la luce d’un sole indifferente,
ed io, guardando al infinito,
penso a te e la tua pelle
come sabbia bagnata sotto le mie dita.

Nessuno si azzarda a interrompere la fantasia,
nessuno capisce bene che succede con me,
ma io non sono qui, con gli altri.
Sogno te, e quello caldo amabile
che parla di noi in gemiti sussurrati
lì e là,
con i pianti testimoni muti
della cosa più naturale,
seguendo i sentimenti nostri
senza pensare che direbbero i vicini.

Mangiamo insieme dallo stesso piatto
e dopo ci stringiamo in un abbraccio glabro.
Adesso, ricordando alla stessa luce d’un sole indifferente
come mi svegliasti con un bacino al collo
e poi un altro sulla guancia
ed un altro sugli occhi
ed un altro sulla bocca.
E mi ricordo di pensare
“magari svegliarci sempre alla luce
di questi baci,
al tatto di te
del tuo sguardo”.
Solo il pensiero mi fa
un lampo sulla schiena
ed infiamma il mio seno.

- Che cosa fai?

Mi dici un collega preoccupato.

- Niente, mi sono astratta.

E ritorno a lavorare con normalità.

Felicidades, ha sido trauma

Me miro la mano y veo la sangre.
La veo manar desde mi vientre piñata,
no importa cuántas veces lo golpee
nunca saldrá una niña.
Froto mis dedos con curiosidad
nunca vi una realidad que me hablara de mí
y mi dolor,
ahora que éste se ha callado.
¿Cómo hago para que me hablen de mi ausencia?
Y hurgar dentro buscando el botón de reinicio
escuchando la melodía del silencio
a media voz entre un dolor que ciega
y unos gemidos que ya no suenan a nada.
Me doy cuenta de que no importa cuánto sangre,
que no importa mi sangre
ni la apertura desde la que bombea,
que este cuerpo va a morir y a desaparecer,
sin dejar un legado.
Edificio vacío,
todos los vanos condenados.
Quiero meter mi mano ensangrentada dentro de mí
por un butrón que me haga en el ombligo
y buscar tranquila o desesperada,
buscar ahí dentro, a tientas,
un alma.
Tan sólo un alma.

Choices

I didn’t choose to be like this.
Do you think if I could choose I’d be like this?
Vomiting flowers like blood or the other way around
not knowing what hurts more?
Aware each time I swallow my throat is going to remind me
it could be the last?
Do you really believe that out of everything I would choose to be this dysfunctional?
Not being able to accept love without paying a toll of self-hatred,
constantly fearing to be left behind by my equals,
assuming I have already been left behind by everyone else.
Do you still think this is a choice to make?
To be rejected, to be a rejection of your former self,
to feel I’m a fraud in every step I take
no matter how hard I try or fight or let it go,
always that background screaming of childhood pain.
To construct yourself against everything you suffer to,
instead of just… growing out of the happiness ponds along the way.
To have that sensation of dirty dust on the fingertips
and everything I touch being irremediably stained.
Have you ever felt you’ve lost yourself?
More so,
Have you ever had to dig your own grave, bury yourself,
say a little prayer,
and keep going on like nothing happened?
Like you don’t know your corpse is underground in the backyard of your mind?
How can you still say I choose to be like this?
I did what I could, what was left for me to do,
I just did
and it never sufficed
it was never enough
and no matter what that feeling won’t go away
a limb I can’t tear away.
I should’ve just torn myself away,
when I had the chance.
I’ll tell you what I chose.
I chose to be a bad student at high school,
I chose not to talk about feelings,
I chose I had to be a boy,
I chose to lose myself in videogames so as not to live through all the pain,
I chose to hide,
I chose to push them away,
I chose to not let myself grow and become an atrophy of expectations,
I chose I would never speak of it again.
And it failed, it all failed,
except the feeling that guided all those decisions,
and now every path I take is tainted by it,
flooded by it.
I should tell you to walk a mile in my shoes
but truth is I’ve been barefooted for far too long
and I don’t really want you to understand.
Excuse me, I’m choosing not to talk
anymore.

Greek Curse

I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to my father when I killed him.
He didn’t get the chance to say goodbye when he killed me also.

I wonder why things had to be severed up so violently,
with just words on a screen,
not having the courage, the respect,
to say those things face to face,
not even on the phone.

I suppose the ending result would’ve been the same,
both killed lying on the floor.
Me killed by his indifference and his fear
and him
killed by my anger and my pain,
with no blood on our clothes.
Just two people deeply broken for having failed at what was granted
should work.

Does it matter if he cried for me
staring blankly into his hands
as if realizing he had committed
infanticide?
Does it matter I cried for him
staring blankly into my hands
feeling I had committed
parricide?

For Oedipus to become Elektra
only the part of killing was needed.
But memories can’t be killed
and that’s why I gouge my eyes on this day.

Compartir

Nos teniéndonos entonces, ¿por qué                     el miedo?

y poco a poco los ojos que se                                lloran sobre
manos que tapan ojos que se lloran                        para dejar
hablar a unos sentimientos que                                no saben
de palabras reprimidos por                         convencionalidades creídas
a ciegas sin planteamiento real de lo                     que significa
                                                                                 un cambio
y claro,
nos lloramos,
aún nos teniéndonos,
aún nos no yéndonos, aún nos no abandonándonos,
nos quedémonos aquí.
Huir quietas, llorar de quietud en la quietud
romper     romper     romper     nos rompemos
nos rompiéndonos a la vez
cada una por su lado
de la mano cruzando los dedos
miseria nos mundo nuestro nos miseria
se nos nos pierde     nos perderiábamos,
nos reconstuiríamos entonces
sabiendo ahora su nombre nos miedos,
reconstruiiríamos con nos ellos
nos dentro nos nosotras,
un espacio único nos donde libertadarnos
nos aplicadarnos el tratamiento del sí.

Reír Sí
Llorar Sí
Entender Sí
Ansiedar Sí
Abrazar Sí
Comer Sí
Dormidar Sí
Nos besadar    nos acariciar nos acabadar

  Voces infames para ellos
       nos viviseccionar

Aumentadar cada nos ciclo sin fingir.
Revivir cada nos mañana   nos   nos   nos   nosotras,
matrioshka de espacios nos protegedarnos      nos quererreirnos
nos querellorarnos

Todo para nos por y a pesar del nombre del miedo
consabido ello
entonces nos tocarnos nos caras, nos manos,
nos labios,
nos ser real una en otra de verdad.