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Migraine

It begins.
The hammer starts to pierce
my skull late at night.
I think it is about to dawn
but maybe it’s just my head broken
turning the switch on.


Still I think about you,
naturally,
in the stormy pain of thoughts,
like a simple man clings to life
gasping in his dying bed.


I don’t know how I love you.

I just wish I were to sleep.
Today I am tired of this monument.

But my skin has depersonalized
and I don’t know who I am,
I shiver with cold currents of air
that play up my loose nerves.

Now I walk into the marble bathroom
and I say to myself, hugging myself-
‘You just can’t take a love like this,

nor the full-gluten carrot cake.
You feel too much’,
I think while I scream, and I throw up
and end up crying a few lovely tears
I hadn’t had the time to cry before.

What an invincible self-esteem
one has to have in the sweet gloom!
My skull is breaking free into the sky.
Now I think if you really wanted
we know you’d take this heart of mine.


But it’s safer to make me unreal
and deviate, my love, terrified of the wounds
we have opened for one another.

And even I have been torn
between wanting to be human
and fighting to be a god
so as to never be tempted.

Yet I try to call your attention
in the best subtle way,
as if I wished to be tempted
because I can’t help myself.

So now you sit back and make me wait.
You like to leave your flood in me.

You must have hurt enough to do nothing
when you watch me go through hell.

Jeanette

un relato breve

Death

Flowers
are best at farewell.
Their scented lap
makes enough for a bed
with dreamy boughs,
if only porcelain.

Deaf

What a bliss,
to hear the vowels of silence
and stick to their saying,
the soundless monologue
that brings words to bay.

It is final,
the speaker reincarnates
as an all-existence
in the wry mouth of a cliff
where nothing listens.

How touching,
seeing shouts in the air.
Down, the waves seize me
into myself, and I but drowse
to this private meaning.

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de «Tim y el Trastero del Tiempo» haciendo click aquí:

https://lauravlhenche.wordpress.com/tim-y-el-trastero-del-tiempo/

Beatriz Lozano. Copyright © Laura Henche, 2020. Todos los derechos reservados

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