Cooking

We are all the villain in someone else’s story…

If possible, I would eat myself. My body, so thin, would surely be enough for a series of bites, a brief chewing. It can’t be that complex—I repeat to myself every night—just close the door, unbutton the coat, release the chain, remove the muzzle.

To abandon oneself is useful for understanding what we lack, what must be sought. In an encounter of equals, I want to free my skin, held together with staples, and shake my shoes until, one by one, the mockeries and disappointments fall away.

I’ve already exhausted desire in assumptions—intoxicating myself without pleasure, matching gazes with another out of obligation, without interest; I imagine a dark elastic sewn to my waist that allows me, and demands of me, to return, more wounded and ashamed.

Love.

In this city, time is measured in crawling, and death happens at the highest point of flight, like birds.

Exhaustion in the body disguises itself as pain; we always find mere tiredness—it is the weariness of rolling over every night and sleeping beside the dust on the carpet, miserable, empty, and hidden—always cowardly. I search for your perversity in the mornings because you make me forget that I am ordinary.

Love, come, please.

You will be satisfied; it tasted of immersion and of the same thing as a sugar cube dissolving into the memory of coffee. I was confined to disappearing into you in four sips.

I’ve found you now.

At this table there is only one chair, and no invitation was necessary. On the plates are delicacies made from parts of what I once was; your portion you enjoyed earlier, in private. Farewell can also be dessert… We are all the villain in someone else’s story.

Photography by Sofía Revilla Casillas // Developed and scanned by Foto Hércules