Alejandra Pizarnik
To write is to give meaning to suffering.
I redo the body of my poem like someone who tries to cure her own wound.
I don’t know about birds nor do I know the history of fire. But I believe that my solitude should have wingsCollection: Believe
Because no one has more thirst for earth, for blood, and for ferocious sexuality than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrorsCollection: Mirrors
But, who is Death? A figure that harrows and wastes wherever and however it pleases. This is also a possible description of the Countess Bathory. Never did anyone wish so hard not to grow old; I mean, to die. That is why, perhaps, she acted and played the role of Death. Because, how can Death possibly die?Collection: Mean
You've built your homeyou've fledged your birdsyou've beaten the windwith your bonesyou've finished alonewhat no one beganCollection: Bird
An unchangeable colour rules over the melancholic: his dwelling is a space the colour of mourning. Nothing happens in it. No one intrudes. It is a bare stage where the inert I is assisted by the I suffering from that inertia. The latter wishes to free the former, but all efforts fail, as Theseus would have failed had he been not only himself but also the Minotaur; to kill him then, he would have had to kill himselfCollection: Dwelling