Saturday, February 23, 2013


I don't exist in anything but poetry.
I don't exist in novels --at most, in some of their fragments.
My existence is a series of short lines not sequentially arranged. 
I am disorder.
I live in bits and pieces,
I live in fragmented sentences,
I live in cuts.

Maybe I am the woman who can go again and again at one simple action.
I am repetitive and each time I give birth to myself, 
I smell different and have a new flavor. 


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