The stigma of death.

 It's so easy to lose your mind.

I was a queen and love was cheap to me.

Thousands of men flapped their wings in laughter

to taste my syrupy heaven.

I made them wait, suffer,

like the bullfighter before his poor confused beast.

He also collected sperm.

and exhibited them every Sunday

In front of the frightened parishioners

In the masses of twelve.

Today I collect gestures of kindness and charity ties

In this, my sad home of rest.

I don't know how to stand out anymore

between loneliness and my daily hallucinations

and sometimes I try to leave, terrified

from the endless and hermetic corridors

of this silent temple of dementia.

I have a small room

where my dead visit me in the evenings

while the white and sterile nurses

Wipe with professional patience

All my memories in the mornings.

It seems like just yesterday

that Cain kissed me on the mouth

marking me forever

with the stigma of death.

Today I look out of my only window

And I see mountain ranges of diapers peeing for me.

In the trash can

They sink into agony

My gray betrayed fetuses

and in my constant moments of delirium

I hear the cowardly voices

of Luke, Mark, Matthew, John and Mary Magdalene

inclining the already distant and dying verb to love.

When the day is over

I don't know if he's an angel or a devil anymore.

the one calling me to put an end to this once and for all

in this horrible sonnet called life.