Lavínia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 167
There was a day when I woke up before everyone else. It was very natural, I got up, grabbed some old shirts, and my razor. I started cutting and drawing on my leg. One precise cut, and another in the same place. Another in the same place. Another in the same place. Expanding landscapes and dancing in my tissue, I am a piece from the Louvre. Without thinking, just going, I expressed love, it was love.
What I really wanted was cacophony, I hate that word, more synonyms. I wanted confusion, mishmash, irascible impulsiveness.
I would grab blades, nails and needles. A full glass, and I would drink until I vomited blood. Feel my throat being pierced, tearing and bubbling with despair. Feral sounds and growls, with all my mind being lost, seeking comfort in something. Ripping my neck with my nails, while instinctively trying to remove everything, with my fingers being pierced by the needles that pierce my flesh.
I would take a knife, a large one that my mother used to cut meat. I would leave it on the stove, wait more. Wait more. More than I usually wait. Don't be afraid, hold on until it turns red. Take it, turn it over and make it kiss my flesh. The same sound as plastic. Smoke. Reflex, dry contractions. The skin is strange, it is first attacked, then it deforms, and if it continues it is destroyed. The largest organ, protector of the inherent pride of false promises, being transformed into coal, dust of empty hopes. Wait more.
I would take a hammer and crush my flesh, my bones. The flesh swells, a set of liquids that await harmony. The bones are dramatic, they say goodbye and take revenge on their neighbors. Thousands of pieces tearing and turning into glass. I lost my fingers, trembling. I lost my hands, how can I walk together? I lost my arms. I lost my legs. I pick up and eat the shards, the beautiful mixture of blood, tissue and white shards. I don't need to go anywhere.
My face. I would hit it against the wall, look in the mirror. Hit it again. Look in the mirror. See each distortion of the beat, change the shape little by little. The structure dying, slowly turning into a sponge. Forget my face, I'll have a new one. Hit it again, nauseating dizziness, I can't breathe anymore, I no longer have a nose. Look in the mirror, it's all that's left. Like mud, dog shit that sticks to your shoe. Something that evaporates and is not wanted.
I would do so many things. One day, one night, in a theater singing lessons and fables to my husband. I am a mother, I am a wife, someone loves me. Someone hears me. Someone understands me, someone sees my pain. Someone understands what I would do with my pain. Someone understands that I would do, someone feels what I feel. Someone who would care, someone who wouldn't kill me. Someone who wouldn't kill me, someone who wouldn't kill me. Someone who would look at me, look at me, look at me, be my mirror. Who would see that I need help.
What I really wanted was cacophony, I hate that word, more synonyms. I wanted confusion, mishmash, irascible impulsiveness.
I would grab blades, nails and needles. A full glass, and I would drink until I vomited blood. Feel my throat being pierced, tearing and bubbling with despair. Feral sounds and growls, with all my mind being lost, seeking comfort in something. Ripping my neck with my nails, while instinctively trying to remove everything, with my fingers being pierced by the needles that pierce my flesh.
I would take a knife, a large one that my mother used to cut meat. I would leave it on the stove, wait more. Wait more. More than I usually wait. Don't be afraid, hold on until it turns red. Take it, turn it over and make it kiss my flesh. The same sound as plastic. Smoke. Reflex, dry contractions. The skin is strange, it is first attacked, then it deforms, and if it continues it is destroyed. The largest organ, protector of the inherent pride of false promises, being transformed into coal, dust of empty hopes. Wait more.
I would take a hammer and crush my flesh, my bones. The flesh swells, a set of liquids that await harmony. The bones are dramatic, they say goodbye and take revenge on their neighbors. Thousands of pieces tearing and turning into glass. I lost my fingers, trembling. I lost my hands, how can I walk together? I lost my arms. I lost my legs. I pick up and eat the shards, the beautiful mixture of blood, tissue and white shards. I don't need to go anywhere.
My face. I would hit it against the wall, look in the mirror. Hit it again. Look in the mirror. See each distortion of the beat, change the shape little by little. The structure dying, slowly turning into a sponge. Forget my face, I'll have a new one. Hit it again, nauseating dizziness, I can't breathe anymore, I no longer have a nose. Look in the mirror, it's all that's left. Like mud, dog shit that sticks to your shoe. Something that evaporates and is not wanted.
I would do so many things. One day, one night, in a theater singing lessons and fables to my husband. I am a mother, I am a wife, someone loves me. Someone hears me. Someone understands me, someone sees my pain. Someone understands what I would do with my pain. Someone understands that I would do, someone feels what I feel. Someone who would care, someone who wouldn't kill me. Someone who wouldn't kill me, someone who wouldn't kill me. Someone who would look at me, look at me, look at me, be my mirror. Who would see that I need help.
