Chinches en el Espejo

agosto 5, 2008

Mi rebelión

Filed under: Poesía — chinchesenelespejo @ 11:00 pm
Un día partí lejos.
Cuando mi padre se olvidó
que yo tenía senos.
Callé de golpe y dije adiós.
-Decir adiós es tener
pájaros feroces en las manos-.
Me fui hacia allá
donde todo es azul
y es torrencial y fresco:
la montaña.

Iba con mi arado silencioso
y un alto sueño de tambores
en las manos.

conjugada con el viento,
recorriendo la cordillera
de mi vientre,
fresca como la santalucía
que nace libre
en los parajes.

Después ya nadie
me pronuncio en las clases,
ni en mi barrio
ni en mi casa.
Solo la leyenda
de mi valija al hombro,
con mi mochila de luz
creciendo arriba
de mi espalda.

ya nunca pregunto mi padre
si yo tenía lápida,
o alguna azucena dormida
entre los dedos.

Mía Gallegos


Filed under: Propio,Relatos — chinchesenelespejo @ 12:41 am

When you can stop, you don’t want to. When you want to stop, you can’t.

I knew that. Of course I knew -I’m not such a fool. It’s just that -well I suppose you have this tendency to think this kind of things happen to others, but never to you. Like you were immune or something, the sort of superman somebody talked about you don’t remember where. Invincible, the shine on your eyes cries out, can’t anybody else notice? You really feel special -this is why the crash into reality hurts so deep, deep inside. Nobody wants pieces, no matter how weak, how unstable you were as a ‘whole’. You have to keep stand if you don’t want to be alone. And you have to live in your own comfortable, padded, blue pool in order not to break down.

Well, she was my own, personal pool. I took care of her -for my own sake. Took off the dead leaves, changed the water from time to time… so I could have a fresh dip. Calling it love was the most shameless cowardice -romanticism, at the most. Common selfishness, to be honest. But I’m not good at being honest -especially to myself.

The only thing I know for sure, the only thing that doesn’t seem a fake after all this time and after all this life is that she had borrowed her face from an angel. Listen, I don’t care a thing about sounding twee at my age. I’m beyond adjectives now -everything’s so clear to me now I need no ornament. Of any sort. But her face. Please let me have this only weakness.

The only thing I regret is being alive right now. I’m just waiting to fall into pieces. After all this time, after all this life without her it is the only homage I can pay to her. My broken loneliness.


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