I got into the forbidden blood in the form of mantras dream written down gradually, as an everlasting rain advice coming from the lips of all my wives. They taught me to measure my hope, to define my dreams, my illusions cut into strips to pour into the soup fool of everyday life. Being a woman was more like a decalogue than a privilege. I promised certainties. They offered me protection. And so my mother became the mafia of my soul and my sisters in the voices that pointed out to me. You, uh, you, do not be yourself, be other, more modest, more docile, more decent . I fear your father, your brother's reputation, the morale of your husband ... crawl to swim, say yes to everything and will save your name, but means nothing, but not owned. Do not look at your body, do not look, do not feel it, feel no desire, do not have fantasies, do not you become a slut, a vicious, a pervert, a whore. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, dirty ...
broke my mouth sheathing silence me, but finally, I never fought back. And nailed my will to fear and night.
But there is something to be done. Die, and if possible, die many times.
then follow, but you arrested. Follow, follow that impulse, that desire, the life that beats within.
Because there is something wonderful in my blood. Something I love. My Goddess .
She whispered to me in song, softly, like a small breeze. Dance, sing, laugh, write, scream, tremble. Fuck. Sigh me in those breaks to give the cry for breath, for breath, pain in the confusion when trying to prosecute or seek an outlet to empty when you sense that there is something beneath your own skin, waiting, dormant. And filled my head of banned words without knowing that there is something inside me that overflows. Bursts.
Flying, crying, laughing, painting, fucking, eating ... to be ME. Wake up. PASSIONATE. Giving up the ass cold.
I will not give up. Although prohibited.
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