Give me a mirror and I’ll show you I’m made of lights and shadows, but I’m concrete and fragile, so don’t hit me.
Fix your eyes on my past and you will see that I have not always been meek, I have been corrupted by hatred; I have not always been great, I have shrunk with fear; I wasn’t always bright, I was compressed on a carpet in an empty room, so don’t assume.
- Smell my scent.
- Taste my taste.
- Devotedly.
- But I know I can be cold and indifferent if I bring thorns.
- Bites or an empty touch.
- So don’t bother me.
Read me, like an unfinished book, with daily notes and inscriptions, blank pages by chance or not, now in draft version, now in final spelling, so don’t scribble on me.
Walk by my side, hands together, bodies in agreement, without crossing the street, without going barefoot, what I want is company, so don’t sue me.
Recognize that I have colic in my body and soul, that both can bleed, and my eyes can shed tears suddenly, without how or why, so don’t ignore me.
Give me love and hugs, leave the package at the door; Bring me respect, put the flowers aside, spring comes in and, having said that, don’t decorate me.
Call me the name, but call it strong and strong, because that’s how I want to be mentioned, call me with the epithet you want, daughter, mother, professional, invent the function that designates affection, but call me mostly woman, because otherwise I will not attend.