When I close my door

IN FOG I FOLLOWED THE FLAME

The fog is a photography game, the street giving birth to stones and a pigeon on the boardwalk drinking from a puddle of wine (((For me it’s like… the silly feeling of being outside the island))). No, not like that! It is to be born covered to take care of the skin that attracts the rain. The mist is the camouflage of dogs while the eyes are closed, at night, alone, like the silence that ignores the luminous doors. I think of the night my mother was in labor pains. The hospital room with cats hanging at the windows, angry, claws on the glass as if expressing nonconformity. My enemy accompanied them. That is how I began my long concert of screams. Mother told me: (((calm down, mijo, here we all come to learn))). In the fog, I used medicines for my throat, I followed the flame without caring about the pain and the knife edges. I made it through turbulence with a stabbed body. In my hands several books of poetry. Poets of my island. Young people who have illustrated my life in many ways. I discover that you can stretch your body like a circus performer. To dance like a star amid adversity. Now I don’t want to despair, I don’t want to get bored, I don’t want to deny the circumstances. I don’t want to forget the knives, nor the poets obsessed with writing confidences, the irredeemable poverty, the loneliness. My dream screaming madly in my forehead to be left alone. I lie on my stomach to write, but the words escape me to other stories. Grandpa says: (((write my story, write it, I never thought this would happen))). Then I am left thinking like a book saddened by loneliness.