I feel as if I am giving proof of innocence,
when no one ever cast you as the executioner.
As if, instead of making small repairs at home,
it were you who destroyed it
and then asked me to rebuild it,
claiming the house must be maintained.
At what moment did being become the same as serving?
How can it be that the pressure for you to provide
is what leaves me in a place of lack?
Prisoner of panic,
last bullet,
fear undone,
the quickest one to fall.
A house where I froze,
where I struck myself on the nails
that little by little had come loose from the roof,
rusted hinges,
pain in my chest.
The light in another home,
so warm and welcoming
that its few meters expand my spirit.
Nothing to fix and everything to celebrate:
art, friendship,
the purple horizon with a sky
that tastes of cotton candy for the very first time.
Without falling,
without noise,
yet with so much sound in what I once called percussion:
the drum.
The sharpened tone of my voice
now embraces and says:
“Do it for yourself.”
Only,
“do it for yourself.”
