Why this tormenting thirst? Why the fatiguing need? It is the wound that talks from the left side and traces itself perpendicularly to the inverse angle of an astral projection, which is not your image or the image of a dead god; it is the delayed image of the wound that you inflicted in your right side, and you delicately traced with your fingernail a circumference that goes beyond this visceral canvas.
There´s no doubt that my hands were hell, my feet heaven and my silence penetrated your belly, time after time until it became the tower that stores my deaths, yes, the deaths that I carry as a burden over these paths of words and madness.
I could pull the rope or the trigger, but in your nipples I found the arsenic of the rainy days. You delayed my end between your legs, and I delayed yours in these sheets that wear away with the hopelessness and the blood stuffed in the temple
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