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Herrera Peña Daribel

Marianne, la fleuriste...

Marianne, la fleuriste... 

Marguerites, tulipes, tournesols, lilas et bien d'autres encore; tant à choisir et me voici dans la fleuristerie attendant avec impatience ton arrivée. Me dirais-tu que je suis excessive si tu me voyais? Mais que devrais-je être, si seule ta présence me rend folle? 

Ne crois pas que je suis quelconque, car je suis seulement la fleuriste qui prépare des cadeaux affectueux pour les autres; mon client le plus fidèle, c'est toi. Tu viens et tu repars sans dire un mot. Tu souris juste de toutes tes dents et tu parles avec une fluidité charmante, comme les vagues de la mer. Et chaque fois que je sens la brise fraîche en cueillant des fleurs, je pense à toi. Cher client aimé, tu es beaucoup mais en même temps tu n'es rien à moi. Quelle sensation étrange!

Pardonne mon absence, je sais que nous ne pourrons plus nous voir. Toi et moi, unis par les fleurs et séparés par rien. Tu me verras sûrement comme une étrange, comme un inconnu mal à l'aise. Ne me comprends pas mal! Je veux juste t'exprimer et te transmettre la raison pour laquelle tu ne me verras plus, mon cher client.

 

Des pétales tombent d'une même fleur.

Difficile à distinguer, sont-ils. 

Mêmes couleurs, mêmes formes, mais jamais égaux. 

Uniques et variables avec des intérieurs différents. 

Quelque chose d'incompréhensible pour l'œil de l'ignorance.

 

Un des pétales veut être comme les autres. 

Un autre rêve de voler avec la brise d'automne.

Et le dernier s'imagine dans les œuvres de théâtre en France.

Ce qu'indigne l'œil qui exclamait:

les pétales doivent se comporter comme des pétales!

 

Démotivés par l'œil, un par un, les pétales sont détériorés.

Un des pétales reste comme il est.

L'autre s'est flétri de malheur.

Et le dernier s'isole de honte. 

 

Et maintenant que tu me connais, que penses-tu de moi? Cette vieille est quelque chose de spécial, n'est-ce pas? Haha. 

Ça fait longtemps que je n'ai pas parlé à quelqu'un après des années. Je te remercie d'être le premier et le dernier. Dommage que cette vieille femme, que je suis, avec mes fleurs, n'ait pas pu profiter de ce plaisir de voir le monde différemment comme tu nous l'as enseigné, cher jeune client.

Moi et mes fleurs te remercions sincèrement. Et même si je ne suis plus là, prends soin des fleurs les plus jeunes qui, comme toi, sont une lumière curieuse et euphorique qui tourne autour du monde. Bonne chance avec tout mon cœur.

Marianne, la fleuriste xxx




Envoyé: 18:07 Sun, 3 March 2024 par: Herrera Peña Daribel age: 16

Herrera Peña Daribel

The best hours of my life


And then you looked at me without trying to hide. I've begged you to let me live, but you don't listen, you don't understand. A stubborn foul-mouthed person never understands. You just want to destroy me. That's your way of loving me, I know. How disgusting. Inevitably, my heart belongs to you. A mixture of loneliness and joy torments me as I feel your gaze behind me. You're all I have left, what a disappointment. My shoulders ache, my heart throbs, and my eyes cry. "How can you leave me?" I scream. Even though it's what I wanted.

A sudden groping catches me off guard, making me tremble and jump from the cold floor where I am. I've been there for hours falsely lamenting your infidelity, which is not the first. Steps backward, I walk, steps toward me, you advance. Nothing to fear, I repeat in vain. The truth of what I say has long been worthless. In a way, we are meant for each other. We are both tremendous trash.

"My love, I'm nobody to talk to you after dishonoring you, but deep in my mind, I miss you... a lot..." You babble meaningless words, air in a sack that has already exceeded its limits, why do you have to make everything so difficult? When it's clear to both of us that we're nothing more than parasites.

Go away, I want to say aloud, but nothing comes out. Let me live, please... As if I really wanted to live after all.

Your eyebrows furrow, for your smile, I'm repulsive, and for your eyes, I'm just an empty and irritating prey that only serves as a tool. You reach out to me, your body radiates a comforting sense of trust. I've wanted to disappear for a while. I don't want to see you anymore. My lord, stop drowning me in despair. Although, to be honest, I've gotten used to it. I can't believe that after all, I'm the unhappy one, I believed in you, I clung to you, to your decisions, to your being, and I've paid dearly for it. Although it was to be expected from a woman like me, so stupid and naive. Impatiently, you grab me and squeeze hard. I struggle in anguish. Not again. You hit me in the face, insult me, and repeat how much you wish you had never met me. I think the same, many spoke so well of you that I fell into your trap. Silence is the only witness to the truth that, even if I wanted to, will never be revealed. I'm someone who at the moment can't develop as I want.

Instead, you, on top of the world, see me as an ant that you must annihilate. Lovely, isn't it? That's my destiny, that's my life. I wish to live it fast, so we both are happy.

In this vast dream apartment, I hide from you, my love, heartless idiot. You hit me, threaten me, and despise me, and all for what? To feel better? It's pathetic, and even more pathetic am I for enduring it, I have my reasons, I won't deny it. This is my world, my environment full of hypocrites, with superiority complexes, of women like me who have nothing but a husband to depend on. It mostly reminds me of mom, don't be like me, she said, a piece of crap. Nights crying seeing how my mother was mistreated by a man who insisted he was my father. And look at me now, the living image of that miserable woman who called herself mother.

I bleed out on the floor, crimson red blood flows on the marble floor shining as much as diamonds, while on the hot floor, it turns into smoke in a matter of seconds. I'm finished. I don't think I can go on more than this. Anyway, the fire is rising. The higher it goes, the more satisfied I am. After his beating, I don't feel my body completely, and the idiot caused a fire. And now only gentle warmth in my body. Tears of relief stream from my eyes. It was time. Finally, I achieved my goal. Soon I'll be able to leave this place. I'm loving this moment. Expensive paintings burning and the sofa all black, my hands directing as well as my eyebrows and eyelashes. A hot and charming hell; paradise.

And so I end up, kept, beaten, and turned into ashes in a couple of hours. And to be honest, they were the best hours of my life.




Envoyé: 07:15 Mon, 4 March 2024 par: Herrera Peña Daribel age: 16