Her.
I call her She.
Obdurate and primeval and congenial.

She, is ready to adjust.

It is the voice of ancient women.
Queens that got beheaded, courtesans that got stoned, witches that got burned alive.

Only the housewife survives.
Old blood that I still try to get rid of.

I follow her one and only ethic.
I discover precious moments of connection with beloved people,
eyes full of destiny, ideas made by necessity, words that open possibilities, advice filled with clarity,

thoughts and wishes that are willing to survive eternity.
For that, I keep my flowers in my hair as a statement of war against the rest. Ready to get beheaded, ready to get stoned, ready to get burned alive.
I am ready to die in all of these moments.

I want to be the first woman again.
Another Lilith without the curse.
I am She.
I am a She.
Hitting the rocks with her feet, She is marking the trail. Orange for the pebbles to be seen well.
She was walking to avoid meeting anyone.

-I am alone-. She breathed at last.
Craving the air and the sun, and every dawn.
In a twilight of a dawn like this, I saw myself shot to a thousand pieces.

I didn’t know I was so much.

She likes myths.
I will spoil her. I will give her the best.

One day, I will travel a dream.

I live lonesome and forceful.

I am She.
I am a She.
Ready to be beheaded, ready to be stoned, ready to be burned alive.