Tu as esté trahy, et tu m'as trahie par des espérances trompeuses.
"Considère, mon amour, como não há nada que a minha voz não abra, como eu sou a bruxa da palavra. There's a box with real bones in my cell. They look repugnant, of course. Yet I find myself flirting with them even as i write you this letter. For a long time I have been living very much aware of the bones under my desk. Everytime I touch the box with the tip of my naked foot, it opens a little until by daybreak it is completely, perversely open. I have never looked at the bones inside but I can imagine them. I write about them (and not to you). I have recently started imagining how they smell and whether the cell is smelling of them. I wonder if you ever noticed this smell when you came to visit me. They are always on my mind. I have similar bones inside my writing hand, and they make me hold this pen like this, writing my restless desire against the page that you will never touch. For the moment, my own bones are coated. (Why do you neglect this soft coat?) As I write this letter urging you to come back, I travel through my coat to warm myself, allowing the uncoated bones to witness my silent refusal to be yours. Tu as esté trahy, et tu m'as trahie. Mai il y a des choses a vous dire. j'ai quelque chose a vous montrer. Considère, mon amour, le retour.
mariana
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