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Naked Mist
The woman of tomorrow
On Sunday, she stripped herself of all names. She was just being, naked of any purpose in the world. She lay on the sofa, drank wine and read about the stars. And that’s how her husband found her on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.
On Saturday, she put on her women’s clothes and went to bed with him, drunk with desire.
At dawn, looking at the moon, she decided that she would wear her mother’s clothes one day, but not so soon. The walls ceased to be solid things as soon as she became a lady, they were the shadow of a false security.
The real danger always came from inside.
She was a living thing, a strange voice on the phone, a shadow like so many others, a womb, a lip, an eye, a crack, a black hole swallowing up its mysteries.
A variety of colors mingled in the drawers. So much space for herself without being there, so much space to cover without wanting to. She cried when she found herself wounded, she didn’t know so much about this side that was silenced by the life that flowed like blood through her legs.
It was time that prevented the being from being, from knowing what it was in the midst of the things that exist.
On Sunday, she dressed up as herself, opened the window and smoked a cigarette. She looked up at the sky and imagined the planet floating in the abyss, in the unknown.
They weren’t so different.
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— Isabella Luiz is a writer, prolix, redundant and Brazilian.
She has poetry in collections published in Brazil and Portugal and a mediocre book in progress. Follow me on Medium for more stories.
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