Violada

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Os dias estão sendo violados por uma paz de cansaço. Uma paz de desistência, uma paz de tanto faz. Os dias não são bem dias, mas se manifestam, me encontram, embora eu apenas queira não ser vista. Urgem em mim dias de mais que desassossego, um tempo de frio de chuva de inverno, de água que escorrega empurrada pelo vento. Rayuela me espera, a hora do conto me espera. Eu me espero. Haveria estréia? Haveria realmente recomeço? Haveria fome depois da dor, da paralisia? Quais seriam as imagens restantes, as cores novas do sul, o passeio pela alameda escura na qual me conduziste pela mão? Quais seriam as novidades que se desprenderiam de nuvens e me despertariam para construir uma casa, pintar nela (tod)as paredes, tatuar meu corpo junto ao chão, apertar meu sexo contra teu corpo e te pedir que fiques. De qual silêncio surgiria um pássaro grande e equilibrado que resgataria a mim mesma de ausências e de infortúnios? Eu não me abrigo, resisto à tentação de me salvar.

Imagem de William Blake, Pity.

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