The night I knew the nuances of the colors that blood could have, I was 10, my tenth years in this world. My favorite was black, which happens when it accumulates.
The night I felt desire, I had 11. I wish for him.
The night I wanted to die, I had 12. Die for him.
The night I ran out of air, I had 13. Air that he stole from me.
The night he stole a sigh from me, he was 14. When he kissed me. Damn thief.
The day after, he stole my words. Offender.
And the day of his departure, my hopes. Bastard.
