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Make Up,
di Woodson Zhao
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Nessuna parola
Viviamo in segreto, nascoste dentro una maschera che ci avvolge tutte.
Sussurriamo appena, e nessuno ci sente.
Siamo le invisibili. Sul nostro corpo, c’è la mappa del mondo. Quella che hanno disegnato i nostri uomini, la topografia insensata del loro amore. Che stupra e ferisce.
E mentre si inginocchiavano ai nostri piedi, noi, in silenzio, abbiamo coperto i segni e allontanato la parola.
Il nostro viso parla un linguaggio straniero.[/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1/2″ css=”.vc_custom_1556960657396{background-color: #000000 !important;}”]Bluebeard
Bluebeard killed every one of his wives, and kept the corpses in the bowels of his castle. He would keep them that way forever, avoiding the danger of boredom and the pain of old age, and preserving them intact instead, in the magic of fairy tales, in one sealed room.
Of the women he married, all young and beautiful, all very similar to each other, he acquired body and fidelity, bringing each one of them to his castle to make her a bride and violate her on the wedding night. To each of his wives, Bluebeard gave up full ownership of his castle.
All, my love, everything except for the forbidden room. You will have the key, but you will not need to use it.
Only the last wife used it. She found in the room her twin sisters, with cloned wounds on their bodies. And in their faces, the usual pain.
(Trad. Rachel Cordasco)[/vc_column_inner][/vc_row_inner][vc_zigzag]