My tongue has life.
And more than life, it has death: my death.
The death of the secrets people keep within it.
A little box of enigmas, of beautiful words consecrated to love.
My tongue holds me, and I hold it as my home and my eternal friend.
We keep forever the answer to people’s anxious doubt.
I show it my cave, I perform an autopsy on myself,
and it gives me the word—the sacred word.
It has seen me faithful, before the only thing I believe in, something only the two of us know.
Blessed tongue, it enchants whatever it touches,
and the sounds that come from it—because of it—
are the sounds of a rebellious girl, a woman, an old woman, a sorceress.
Do not let it be taken from my side; my only support is having it. Thinking is not enough for me—I must hear it, so I can tear it from my being, dissolve it in the air, on the summit of a mountain or in someone else’s ear.
Photography by Andrea Sánchez S. // Dev/Scan at Foto Star
I was born in Guadalajara, but I’ve lived in the country’s three largest cities. I’ve devoted almost my entire life to art, and in my work I reclaim childhood through creativity.