Do not open the diary
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Carrying the sugar plantations under their wings
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I’m still sixteen and a half years old,
Walking on one hair stretched between
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And the sky complains:
I cover myself with its rainbows.
I no longer shed bitter tears:
The race of the lines of my face in the mirrors
Has stopped, and I have patched the dress
Of my achievements.
I no longer get a buzz from my persistence.
I no longer cry on a festive day
Because the dust has taken the shine
From my shoes.
I have given up my throne of illusions.
Now I understand the deathly cement crawling on the braids of the thyme,
crushing them beneath its corpselike weight.
Everything is going fine:
Chaos erupts regularly
And all my worries
Seem smaller in size.
I’ve stopped craving to play with water.
I’ve stopped watching the sun
Change its scarf behind
The evening’s curtains.
I beg you.
Do not open the diary.
The birds that keep the sugar plantations
Under their wings
Might fly away.
