Amarte es como desangrarme las manos por las rosas que voy cortando en el camino; es volverse delirio para obtener el lirio y buscar Dioses que te alivien de todos tus martirios.
To love you is to bleed my hands out with the roses I’m cutting on my way; it is to turn oneself into delirium to obtain the lilium, and to search Gods who’ll soothe all of one’s agonies.
Amarte es volverse posesión y volverse exorcista; el placer de modificar las posiciones y terminar rezándote de rodillas.
To love you is to turn into a possession and become an exorcist; the pleasure of modifying my position to end up praying at your knees.
Tenerte toda la fe que jamás tuve por ningún Dios e intentar comprender las noches que me flagelas; ser mártir y desnudar el duelo para que no dudes de que el amor es carmín lozano, pura sangre palpitando.
To have in you all the faith I never had in any God, to try to understand the nights on which you scourge me; to be a martyr and to undress the grief so that you won’t doubt that love is lush carmine, that it is pure beating blood.
Volverse creyente con el miedo que el día no sobreviva; es terminar rezando entre lágrimas esperando que no te resbales de entre mis dedos. Morir, matar, razonar y lamentar: el aparato digestivo de nuestro amar.
To become devout in fear that the day won’t survive; it is to end up praying in tears, hoping you won’t slip between my fingers. To die, to kill, to reason and regret: the digestive system of our loving.
Amarte es recorrer los días buscando tus escondites, sollozar entre las gentes, estar vivo y volverse tan bélico sólo para que nuestra guerra se vuelva histórica. Amarte es dedicarte a Neruda, anhelarte con Whitman, sedarme con Eliot, blasfemar en mantra con Sylvia y purificar mi cuarto con opio por si un día llegase una revelación hasta tu ventana, sólo así entenderías que nací amándote, que no hago nada más.
To love you is to run through days searching for your hideouts, to sob among the masses, to be alive and to become so belligerent only so that our war makes it into History. Loving you is consecrating you to Neruda, it is yearning for you with Whitman, to sedate myself with Eliot, to curse along with Sylvia’s mantra, and to purify my room with opium in case a revelation reaches your window one day. Only so would you ever understand that I was born loving you, that I do nothing else.
Caer en picada esperando que el cráneo no se abra; volverme de todos sólo para complacer tu mente cerrada; volverme nadie para aprender a asquearme como a ti te asqueaba; vomitar palabras, crear mareas, hablarle a la luna y entender que me he vuelto hiedra.
To plummet hoping that my skull won’t crack open; to give myself to everyone to please your narrow mind; to become no one to learn to disgust myself like I used to disgust you; to throw up words, to spawn tides, to talk to the moon and understand I’ve become ivy.
Amarte lo es todo y es igual a morir en la cúspide del éxtasis. Morir entre pétalos ensangrentados. Morir en plena guerra sin ser nombrado.
Loving you is everything, and it is nothing to die at the peak of ecstasy. To die among bloodstained petals. To die in war without being named.
Amarte es sangrar y sangrar es coagularte.
Loving you is bleeding, and bleeding is to coagulate you.
photograph by Daniela Zaez
translation by Alcira Hava
