is no rancor, but hate
While I sang tango again that you sang in your ear, your machine gun my stomach and stabbed to death the last breath that I was going to play live. I got drunk on cherry brandy and an Indian tribe exquisitely ironed white suits took possession of my room and danced the conga tacky the scapular of your hips with a smile of blue-green hurricane. Decided to kill me and my memories blur with cotton wool soaked in chloroform bored me stomach. The count of your virtues venial removed any electrical device to measure the voltage and the pool is a huge pit of shit. I'm still here in my room, squinting to avoid seeing the Indians with his smile pamphlet-flights, crying mercury and Climbing up the mucus, remendándote socks with pastel pink thread. And after all you still want me to dress in purple sequins and widening the throat a few inches back to swallow your alibi tied dummy. Not even imagine how sharp you assume the time I left to write. Not even have suspected that ever I heard breaking glass long before you break it. But you've broken everything, you broke your waist that keeps popping up in my dreams but I wake up with soaked pillow, you broke the embrace of reconciliation that I flooded the feet of seawater in a metro where I first fell in love Once, even a city. You carry a parapet on each side of your head that you unable to see beyond your own thoughts, and ask me to be so good about yourself as you are to me, I ask permission for the shortage of words when I'm running out tongue licking stone walls as you dropped by all corners of the house. And this was over, everything, all the valleys of Extremadura I smiled and hugged me with much more consistency than you, I went to conferences revealing, I cried when he died century character that I kept remembering my grandmother, I cried the day that, long before it got the certificate, I was seized with the realization that this thin waist grandmother had just died, I laughed at your faults tact, I said your weak points and I reconciled with your image after hours and hours looking at a white wall badly whitewashed and blotchy black. And now we're back here, the valleys have been flooded, but mercury is my mercury and want to have the same good opinion of you than you got me, want to remain orderly and obedient, never leave my panties dirty side of the bed instead of throw the dirty laundry basket, you want me to feel sorry for your sentimentality of Corin Tellado novel when you're not wrong all the world can be with you, you wish to justify at that psychopathology you left a tape in my tape vinyl particular want me to believe that sometime in your life you wanted, but reviewing the bread crumbs that you were dropping your entire life, with the sea on the back and the question mark tearing my esophagus, I realized I've never loved anyone, I wondered how many more times would have played that game, of eternal happiness and parental meals, the parental beds. Asked me to mourn as I broke in front of you and I had to throw my pride down the cliff that there was ... still pieces of flesh hanging from his papier-mâché rocks I brought back a souvenir. And I still intend to continue to give you the same good opinion you have of me, but look, look Bola de Nieve, I is screaming in the face with hate, all I think, all this human misery around you and you will eat inside like worms but I'm not around to see it. Again you get the panic of a heart attack that kills me right now becomes a laugh. You know nothing of suffering, you are like that boy who punched me in the stomach to stand in front of me the day we were going to collect the clay ladybugs we had prepared for Father's Day. And he's hurting and I'm dying, but you do not even care, because after trying to convince me that Peter Pan wanted to chime stabbed me in the navel your rusty hook. Nobody remembers that Tink was crying and remembering the first time I undressed in front of Peter Pan, cursing the fucking time you took that train that plunged into a cavalcade of unintelligible kings. Good humor. For you it all comes down to good humor and people who follows you everywhere, everybody gets on you and is waiting for you the first bug bite on his neck. My back is completely cold and wet, they say the movement, remember? Miss it so much that pending that would change my ovaries to see him again if only ten minutes. We would talk and tell us what happened. Might take him fire together with the croaking frogs left on my shelves and we would launch at that cliff. I wanted to believe that I would have killed me, I simply would have left her alone, Japanese insolent, the cliffs are there for something, and I wanted that I believe that under a mattress foam. But the postage stamps every day know better and now I have a friend who has beautiful flower name and stroked my cheek when we were alone. I feel so ridiculous that I would like my hate me leave you by the ears and you burn like lava that came out last night from my liver. Return to play the same and not even have the courage to renew your arguments. I do not I have the courage to wish you dismembered like a rubber doll, but I swear by all the moss in the world by just one minute you feel bad to remember me, I swear that I will never have a good concept you because you are an absolute badass with pastel-colored poles because that could send a red dog to tell you all that I'm saying it, he was cornered in the darkest room of the house when I returned, limping, he looked at you while you pious eyes reproached him I did not want to do it, you asked permission to get on my arm on the train, he who danced with me while you were walking in pools rain because he had forgotten about my limp, with a little love and respect. Every time I look in the eyes I remember I took that train to go to stroke your hair, you remember the three seconds flat in which I walked from the wood and glass door to the octagonal bench, and I feel bad. And when we die he and I will still be a corner in the smell of stale world where you can keep playing your game nosed harlequins and clowns. For now, the broken glass that hung from the ceiling of my room widens the same speed as my hatred and is about to get my lungs in the sun. And he said, "It's not bitterness, but of hate" (and I know what gave you so afraid of hate). Now you can separate from your side forever, with one of your hands huge and beautiful, I guess you were hoping for centuries the subject. Here it is the vomiting that is busting my eyes.
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