Mariecienta

El papel es un campo de batalla donde la tinta finge ser sangre. No hay cielo en tu frase, solo el blanco de un ojo que no parpadea. Esa águila —signo que inventaste— no devora carne: devora silencio. Te busca el cuello porque sabe que bajo tu piel no hay vísceras, sino más texto, más pausas, un andamiaje sosteniendo el vacío. Si tú eres la coma, yo soy el punto final que se niega, la mancha que arruina la certeza: dos ficciones frente a frente antes de que alguien sople el polvo y cierre el libro.

You have to let people love you. You have to let people get to know you. You have to let people help you. Being so completely selfless that you try to erase yourself off the face of the planet and never ask for anything and reject everybody's offers of support makes you very hard to love! Unfortunately. Emptying yourself out of everything that makes you, you is not actually what your loved ones want from you, generally. They want to make you happy! They will be so so sad if you don't give them the chance. It's not all selfish. I promise.

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