The Queen She gathers up her hair, slowly paints her lips the color of fruit -flesh of every peach, homeland of licentiousness, dream framed by a mouth’s corners-. Her body is blessed, her eyes large with new growth, her face, her word; and clothing makes her uncomfortable, her blood, her hair is eaten away by silence, her wounds fill up with holes... and she knows it. She cuts her arms, chews her legs, calls herself goddess, faultless fairy queen, like when she was a child... and she does not know it. She spits up bile on her miniskirt and stops being who she is so as to be who she thinks she should be; and yet she isn’t. But from one side of the mirror, blind to harvests gone by, untouched by the corruption of trickery, still innocent, everlasting, she is again the shy girl who said "no" with her silence, the unfinished woman who flees from love as from a punishment and who uses up the coherence of life among guilt and pills, among men and sorrow, among the shadows of...