I didn’t have a lot of options. Perhaps I was always pushing them away with my own hands. Who can say? Certainly not someone with my blood, someone who doesn’t even know where the highborn blood has flowed to.
When I decided that my inadequacy in life could be something to brag about, a knife I could seize from the blade’s end, I started to show off my memory and knowledge.
Lalalalà, I remember all the fragrances. The trifling offenses of rotten peaches and two-bit martyrdoms.
Lalalalà, the clothes I’m wearing are inadequate to the gigantic desire for revenge, so I buried them in a drawer.
Lalalalà, O you who still bear love for me, understand that I know it’s only a love of injuries.
Lilililì, there’s the sewer down which I pour all my knowledge.
Lilililì, on that lightless table I stripped books and learning of all their varnish, with the use of a blowtorch and a welder’s mask.
Lilililì, in those hues I trilled like an eerie hoopoe and reeled off names to be remembered by those who, unlike me, will live on.
Lilililì, around the corner of the day before yesterday, I was the magister militum hiding under the bed.
Lilililì, on that other bed, I lost my identity and shape and now I’ll never know if I’m a man, a woman, or both.
Not that killing ever put me in an especially good mood, but at least it makes me feel I’m alive. It satiates me with flight, terror, hiding places, here’s the noise of the people coming to get you. You know. Those kinds of things.
All of them.
Except for guilt, I killed it too, in all the previous lalalalà’s and lilililì’s.