Lilian Michelle Medina (Mexico)

 
Lilian Michelle Medina (Mexico)
 
Lilian Michelle Medina (CDMX). Mexican poet and writer who does not distinguish between the passion for the letters and free running. She studied Hispanic Letters at the Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana. She has participated in literature conferences as a speaker and moderator since 2015. She obtained the first place in the Poetry category of the Literary Creation Contest organized by the XX CEEECIL. Currently participates in independent projects and as an assistant in the System
National Researchers. She infects literature on the Instagram account @lectophilica.
 
 
The broken
 
All the broken know
of emptiness and absence.
They carry ghosts hanging
all over the body
that they weigh and sometimes
lighten.
All the broken
discover new fissures
with every stroke of luck
because they drag doom
underfoot.
All the broken know
of families by contract,
of friends
with a very long tongue
and love
without significance.
All the broken know
of horizons without sun,
of echoes in the chest,
of the rise and fall of the sea
and from elusive hiding places.
All the broken
walk without knowing
how many frayed seams
they carry under their footsteps.
The broken ones don’t go to the tailor,
they fray themselves little by little.
 
 
 
No vacancy
 
Hidden pain,
heir of silence
and emotional firstborn,
you come back to me as a guest
that claims your stay
enduring, ethereal,
par-a-sit-ic
Just an illusory touch
of foam on the edge of my feet,
you arrive like the wave
that heralds the tsunami,
subtle and phony:
you drown out the cry of the body
In the sound of your tyranny
Where had you been?
Split on the pillow
of my ancient ages?
Dreaming that you are death
on the bed of the impossible?
Hidden in the bags of my face
castaway between the stories without waves?
Recondite pain, old mirror,
you get to cure me of the illusion that I live;
I would give you free accommodation,
but you become unsustainable
when you are big to my chest.
 
 
 
2 am
 
Perches under the mattress
(making me uncomfortable)
like the old family photos:
treasure of a generation
of kisses and caresses.
I dive into the pillow
of the boiling time
and I evaporate myself
in the form of a nightmare:
there is no cloud that shelters me
in the wake of mourning.
The distaste of your absence
it rushes me
disenchanted
towards a glass of alcohol,
infected with nostalgia
and loss.
I sleep on your memory
and I crush you
with the weight of dreams
that you left orphans
of dawn
under my eyes.
 
 

Translated from Spanish to English by Mercedes Soto

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