by Ana Revellado Martín
Would you believe me if I told you that the sand saved me?I was wet wood by the time I arrived to the desert
Soaked by the tears and the sweat of a man
That thought a picture of me was enough to keep me still
I was a shadow that he kept trying to capture into his acids
And every time he soaked me, I was corroded
And hung up to dry with the white bedsheets
That still smelled like her
Every time he left
The sleepless creatures of the city came
To stick labels to my skin, to tell me who I was
And all I was, was lust that didn’t belong to me
They said it was mine, but it was their thirst they saw
And I was condemned for painting mirrors
Condemned for being a woman
For a woman shouldn’t know how she looks
And since the sand came, the dampness washed away
I’ve spent my days digging my grave
And my evenings waiting for a breath of air
To cover it
Would you believe me if I told you that the sand saved me?