I don't know whether to lift the nylon that covers my eyelids

when my body squirms in season

daring in milk for my nose twisted in blood

I can foresee the proud fist that discovers me in disgust

thus, the mirror over the foot, pretending strings

why not the dream why not

begging the walls of a warm dead body

my pillow is a lucid beast

wild offspring of an unexisting mind

it is a finger guarded by the eye of the night

a conscious and slow suicide

where my dog eats and I turn into meat

spilled, raw, in the blisters of my birth

the water appeared to me boiled

............................to come out I want

trembling, my throat in pest
because everything breathes

© Yamila Greco

Yamila Greco is Argentinian, and took part with this poem of the first Heptagrama poetry contest.

Arts and expression + Poetry