La caja de mis secretos

Pobres de esos hombres que se creen   que las mujeres son un pedazo de carne.

No entienden que están hechas de magia, que hay un universo dentro de de su piel.

Se sentirían más vivos si tuviesen el coraje de mirarle a los ojos y no esperar que pasen para mirarles el culo.

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Pobres.  

No saben que estamos para que nos amen, para que piensen en nosotras cuando se apaguen las luces y seamos el primer deseo para alguien al despertar. 

No saben que no somos segunda opción, y que tampoco estamos para que nos engañen. 

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Si pueden mirarnos, pero de frente para que vean como tiembla el  piso al caminar con los tacones que ustedes no serían capaces de usar. O para que vean como se rompen los cristale cuando caminamos cerca. 

 

Poor men who believe women are just slabs of meat.
They do not understand that they are made of magic, that there is a white universe within their minds.
Women would feel more alive if they had the courage to look men in the eyes and not wait for them to pass by to look at their asses.
Poor men. 
They do not know that we are to be loved, to think of us when the lights go out and to be the face they first desire to see in the morning. 
They do not know that we are not a second option, and that we are not to be fooled either.
They can look at us, but only from the front so as to see how the floor shakes when we walk in our heels that you would not be able to use. Or to see how the glass breaks when we walk close by. 

 

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