WE ARE SO ALIKE

These cistern tears

Break down waterfalls
Over the warm esophageal of the house.

There are no windows or door,

The hypothalamus doesn’t regulate the temperature
Or his emotions.
That’s why he refuses to write
Falls sleep on rainy days of crying
And my falls.

Is my skul the shell

That fractures cement sidewalk
Your invisible hand that pushes me.

The pain of the fissure

Expands to the house.
I deny that I’m the female with lip,
Becoming a volcano summit,
Exit of fire and anger.

I lead the mealybugs

That rolls together.
 They spit out over dirty leaves,
They give colors to the canvasses.
I drag myself along the tile
I spread a shout cross the coach
And I withdraw across the width of time.

I rewrite my story like a bug

While I’m drinking my oxytocin
Before the trace in memory
Or the cerebral amygdala react to
Imaginary dangers.

Which came first?

The chicken, the egg or the mealybugs?

I ask the resented house

Because I don’t understand her,
Even as long as they hit her in the face
While they say my name.

I quote Eunice Odio:

“but now I don’t wish to be called,
I fit in the voice of no one”.
Because today I return to the egg.
 The female who let segments of words
With the bitterness of the past
And the present’s salt
Was left mummified.

Nymph

There’s a pleasure
In the sand of the planets and
Lime on the roof.

I bathe with the liquor of the ground

I breathe the coffee smoke and serene.
While my larvas are sleeping
And the limbic system romps in a hammacock
That sometimes becomes a spiderweb
Or a tarantula’s nest.