I live in my past.
In the corridor one by three,
painted in the blue of the sea,
between the children's room
and in the room of the hymen
and the farewell.
Mixed memories,
orgasms, births, boiling words,
bird calls, chrysalises
They spin cocoons around their eyes.
And the black panther, still a baby,
He slept with me all night,
his hand in my hand.
I live in my past.
In the corridor one by three,
at its edge, a mirror.
I look inside at me and the panther,
our features altered,
his, mine, one,
A river of blood flows from the hand that held me
and his own hand badly injured.
I live in my past.
In the hallway between the children's room
and in that of the hymenaeus,
where the mirror vomits its entrails.
photo by katerinavulcova, https://pixabay.com
