¡EN CONSTRUCCIÓN!

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(Como la mayoría de los cerebros...)

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El terror

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  Me veo siempre desde fuera. Sentada en la cama, con las manos entrelazadas y la mirada fija en un punto absurdo, irrelevante cómo a veces me parece que es mi vida, sobre todo cuando los días son largos y no puedo parar de pensar una y otra vez en todas las veces que no me elegí. Me veo con una sonrisa ausente, mientras celebran a mi alrededor victorias que yo sigo considerando batallas perdidas, sigo sin entender cuál es el mérito. No. No es cierto. Si hay batalla, y lucha, y ha habido sangre y mordiscos y lágrimas y rabia. ¿Y si soy valquiria? Y por eso tuve que cruzarme el mundo, no sentarme al sol en un octubre tibio, no acurrucarme en el nido de la vida que me vino dada, no conducir con un atardecer naranja en una tarde de enero con una camisa de algodón y un jersey esperando en el asiento del copiloto, no, eso ya no. Sólo frío, y noche, y lucha, y batalla y la sensación de irse a la cama con todas las heridas abiertas, palpitando la sangre en mis entrañas y feliz. Feliz de v...
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5 kilos.

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  She weighed her love in kilograms. The ones she lost or gained depending on how much love she had to beg outside. She was hiding in the crags of her many times broken little heart, looking at the numbers on the scale, and waiting patiently for her new adventure. She unconsciously punished herself by fasting. She would hear her intestines roaring, and she would repeat to herself: guilt, guilt, guilt, chaining the syllables and turning it into a prayer. She was convinced that in the lightness of her flesh, in making her fragility visible to everyone, she would find a way to fly away from that dark sensation that was latching onto her throat. She remembered that the lust that was consuming her every day never touched his body; she just gave him a glimpse of it, and that was enough to scare him for life. She told herself over and over again that her body was not deserving of the warmth and that she would never be touched with the passion she expected. She saw herself in front of th...
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Radio silence

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The sweet spot, the second before everything explodes. The bright lights, the echo of other voices, the rain hitting the glass, messing around, led by the wind. The silence. The heartbeat racing. The taste of something rotten at the back of the tongue, sliding down the throat. The obvious. What everyone sees. What certain eyes can never see. What certain eyes are blind to, just looking at something else. Always something else. A wound. The blood. The mess. Something that feels like home. Jazz notes. A hand gripping the hair at the back of a neck. The slow poisoning. The quiet whispers of what cannot be said out loud. Another defeat. Muddy boots. Slow pace. Quick pace. The darkness observing it all. Thousands of lights following the beat. A gleam in someone’s eyes. The truth. A lie. Walking for days. Crossing back and forth, between the sea and the imagined land. The borders that some observe with hatred, unsure if they ever meant something. Just a line to be crossed. Again and again, d...
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