Juego de malabares

Fuente

Tienes dinero la miras desde tu condición de (in)experto; no puedes mirar esos ojos verdes que tal vez nunca han querido, sacas un billete estrujado del bolsillo y descubres que la estás amando desde siempre, de otras vidas, que la puedes tener en tus manos de miserable y sabes la respuesta que demora años.
Conoces todo lo relacionado con esta muje,la has amado y soñado desde siempre. Por eso te quedas tan indefenso cuando habla. Llevas horas siguiéndola, en total semipenumbra. Has traído tu cuchillo de obsidiana para el sacrificio. Su piel es tan blanca como su alma. El arma le atraviesa el vientre y la sangre fluye. Su vida es un juego de malabares decreciendo. Se agita la respiración, mientras te da pequeños golpes en el pecho. Todo se vuelve tenue y pesado. Ahora puedes oler su piel. Imaginar todos los tormentos que te esperan. Pero en este instante eres absoluto, poderoso. Los sonidos se niegan a contestar. Despedazas el cuerpo, como tal vez lo hacen las aves de rapiña. Usas esta marioneta a tu antojo y la tiras, la desechas.
En la mentira infinita, todos eran otros. Tú cruzas ideas alocadas. Ella va a marcharse de la ciudad en breve, con un viejo cochino. Le comprará cosas inútiles. No será feliz ni a la fuerza. Pero de seguro no va a acordarse de tu condición de escritor frustrado. Sin dinero y queriendo dibujarle con palabras un mundo con unicornios y peces voladores.

Fuente

You have money, you look at her from your condition of (in)expert; you can't look at those green eyes that maybe they have never wanted, you take out a crumpled bill from your pocket and you discover that you are loving her since always, from other lives, that you can have her in your miserable hands and you know the answer that takes years.
You know everything about this woman, you have loved her and dreamed of her forever. That's why you are so helpless when she speaks. You have been following her for hours, in total semidarkness. You have brought your obsidian knife for the sacrifice. Her skin is as white as her soul. The weapon pierces her belly and the blood flows. His life is a juggling game decreasing. Your breath hitches, as you take small blows to your chest. Everything becomes faint and heavy. Now you can smell her skin. Imagine all the torments that await you. But in this instant you are absolute, powerful. The sounds refuse to answer. You tear the body apart, as perhaps birds of prey do. You use this puppet at your whim and throw it away, discard it.
In the infinite lie, all were others. You cross crazy ideas. She's going to leave town soon, with an old pig. She'll buy him useless things. She won't be happy, not even by force. But for sure she won't remember you as a frustrated writer. Without money and wanting to draw her with words a world with unicorns and flying fish.