Birds

Ruined, I presented myself for the second time before your illuminated and inquisitive gaze. I carry three stories in my bag to find out whether you bear a heart beneath your skin. To merge into your blood would be revitalizing, like the morning bath of birds who do not know the word “cage” and allow themselves to fly in every direction.

At nine years old, I managed to select the right images and stories for your arrival. They are mine, but the spell’s instructions promised your smile in exchange for my offering. It was a silent dispossession; I waited twenty-six calendars and allowed weeds to grow in my memories. So as not to grow bored, I planted ugly flowers—of the kind that require tears to bloom.

I walk barefoot to feel whatever life may offer; I give you the words everyone uses, but in the order my soul needs in order to rest within yours.

Life is vast, the options are infinite, and circumstances act like sharpened knives. Do not heed the predictions of the unhappy, for they are far too treacherous to allow me to place love in your hands. That is why I took you by the arm, snatched a surprise from you, and we left without notice—present and defiant, enough to fill what we once believed lost.

Now I let your hands feed me, without distances, with certainties.

I want to create earthquakes on your lips and have you long for their aftershocks; to be the promise that arrives when we present our souls in ruins, to clear the rubble and, together, build another story.

Photography by Karen Anahi Olvera Vargas