The Murder

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In English, to menstruate is – literally – to have a period. On the other hand, a period, also in English, is a final point. In my body, the end of menstrual cycles not often ends with the flowing of blood. The true menstruation is a recognition of the bleeding.

Sometimes, years pass me by without my acknowledgment of the presence, or absence, of the bleeding – which occurs for the first time when I find myself before my own bloody fingers.

I’m certain I have killed someone, I just don’t know who, for I see no body.

This feat, killing a body that isn’t, is indeed a great act. In vain, I search for a no body, appraising what I was capable of doing – my own murder.

The presence of blood and death is so alive in me as the absence of the body which contains it. In this amalgamation (residue) of different sanguineous languages, I’m the proprietary of a letter which doesn’t belong but contains me.

It’s in her that I fear (and confront) the happenings of the soul in its constitutive fracture. It’s also hers the axe that murders the phrases outside of meaning with an assassin logic: killing every father and reader who can’t stand me. The writer of daily’s banalities as a Sunday’s liturgy.

For that reason, I bleed and resist death like a blessed witness of time.