The failure

I accustomed you to the intentional violence
Letting me to go where there are no ways
Letting me smile to old whores
With the scab of the hoe in the shoulders.

You accepted everything, yet knowing well
That at the end of labor weeks
I could return looking for a flavor
Inserted in the skin but not in the mind.

You believed that I was glorious and personal
Without ever stopping to consider it
Like something that others wouldn’t have.

And at the end of the pedestal, so, so upright
There was nothing more than a slight affection
The image that tried to be brotherly.