She grew up there, in the aridity of a desert without caresses or hugs, full of touches that burned, in a home of wild howls, of interrupted innocence, of hurtful company…
She grew up there, surviving the ghosts of the night, covering her skin with thorns, sharpening them to defend herself from those who slipped through the shadows to defile her skin.
She never knew laughter or games, pure kisses, sweet hugs, or new dresses.
So, she dried up inside. She stopped crying, covered her chest with spikes, and decided never to find out what the word love meant…
But he met her, and in love, he refused to watch her wither; it cost him a thousand wounds to get close.
“Leave her, she’s a lost cause,” they told him. “Step aside, there are a thousand healthy women in the world,” they repeated. “Run away in time! Or all your love will spill into the emptiness of her heart and leave you dry.”
But he stayed, refused to listen, and one day, he lifted her in his arms like a servant without strength, tired of running.
Her thorns, eager to harm, pierced deep into his body.
But the warmth of so much pent-up love melted them in his chest.
She then stopped expecting another blow, and for the first time, a being different from all…
