I am not from here, even not from there

Let’s allow ourselves to walk tiptoe in the limits of what is correct, in the fine lines that separate the drawers of a fragmented life. Let’s flirt with death from the strings of a madness that beats in the middle of our chest. Let’s allow ourselves to be what no one knows what it is, what raises questions, which arouses curiosities, let’s simply allow ourselves to be and also not to be. Like the ocean that is calm, shocking, voracious and daring at the same time, that like the fluttering of butterflies is so delicate that it is not perceived and so strong that it destroys weather currents. In the palm of my hands and my feet I feel the constant cold, the wind that runs through every inch of skin to collide, collide and wrap the heat of my chest that rises from my hips. 

All in the same body that experiences lightness and weight, order and chaos, cold and heat, love and hate at the same time staying on that edge, where I move my hips from side to side, play with my hair and stretch my arms as if the wings of dragons were short for me, between the two poles of an existence that does not want to decide without having beat enough. I flirt with the insane edges of the static and permanent that seek to freeze me. I swing on that tightrope, hanging upside down, jumping between the steps, feeling out loud with tears of frost. Burning from my center that allows me to be and nothing else to be there. And it was like that, burning, burning I understood that ash had never fallen into my eyes, they had never gone out, my lips had never frozen. Burning I understood that I was flammable and the candle became my companion.