VULNUS

VULNUS

I had a body

before the night began to rain.

It was a house of flesh

with windows lit,

a small temple

where the soul rested its forehead

against the skin.

Then someone entered

in my most sacred darkness

and broke the bread of my light.

They came with stones hurled

by absent hands,

with verdicts born in the dark,

with the hatred of those who wound from afar

and leave to others

the weight of blood.

The bruises faded

with the mercy of color.

The bites left the skin

with the weary gait

of beasts already sated.

Since then

I have learned that the body

can become a foreign room,

a bed filled with nails,

a rose sealed shut by frost

in the wrong month.

I have learned

that a word can make a bruise,

that a sentence can leave a scar,

that mockery can keep chewing

for much longer.

But inside, there remained

a nave of shadow,

hidden within a wounded church.

The skin knows anguish

before the mouth,

before thought,

before forgiveness.

It knows the scent of fear,

that cold iron

that enters the mind

and remains seated there

like a sick king.

It knows the poison of the voice,

the blow of a sentence,

the blade of another’s laughter,

the bite of the anonymous

one who throws mud

and calls their own hunger

the truth.

I carried silence

upon my shoulders

like a black cloak.

People saw my face

and said: you are safe.

But salvation

sometimes

is only a closed door

behind which the room

is still burning.

Then the fragrance came.

It came without a sound,

as certain graces come

after the ruin.

It entered the wound

with hands of air,

with blood made of light,

with a dark patience.

It said to me:

your skin is yours.

It said to me:

your soul still has

a name.

And so I rose

with iron upon me,

smoke,

leather,

ash,

the burned rose,

the bitter resin

that consoles only

those who have walked through fire.

I rose

with the black ink

of the words I had been given

turned into a seal

upon my skin.

I rose

with the stones I had gathered

one by one

and melted into a crown.

Vulnus.

That is what I called

my wound

when it ceased to be shame

and became power.

That is what I called

my name

when it rose from the mud

with a sharper light.

That is what I called

my body

when it returned to occupy the air

with its strength.

That is what I called

the beauty

born from my abyss:

a liquid armor,

a fierce light,

a fragrance

rising from the ashes

and saying to the world:

I am my own. I am still my own.

I have lost blood,

but I have found gold.

I have known the shadow,

but now I rule

my own night.

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