She carries with her more disappointments than successes, more wounds than trophies and many more lonelinesses than hugs.
Of the five hundred defects she has, four hundred and ninety-nine belong to her, the other rest is invented; but they do not weigh her down, because she learned to love them, to improve them, to carry them, as she carries the smile on her mouth, even if her lips hurt.
She is a dream of flesh and blood, an angel of fire, a universe with a soul, a strange planet.
She is the one who put courage into everything when the world turned its back on her.
She, the one who is in pain and dances, the one who is sunken and travels, the one
who is afraid and accelerates; who remains faithful and does not change.
Perfectly imperfect, no standard beauty.
Different from all, crazy, furious, rebellious, passionate.
The one whose light is turned off and shines more brightly, whose sun is blocked and is reborn, the one who can be a seed, a tree, a flower and a spring.
She is the rain that floods when she cries, shouts her pain loudly, radiates, imposes and from suffering she emerges.
The woman who carries a body that sometimes she cannot bear, the one who dyes herself with defects and invents in a single day the red-lipped rage that defies all causes of defeat.
Complete, broken, split, sour, thus all imperfect, she waves cautiously in front of the eyes of the world, shudders in the hands of hell itself, hard, rough, hostile, fickle one day and loving for months.
Great as you look at her, in ruins, like the greatest of collapses.
She doesn't need anyone's hands, but if you embrace her you'll know what she's made of.
Unpredictable, that's how she is, a free woman, a woman with dreams, fantastic, unique.
That woman who lives in you, in me, that marvelous imperfect woman who repairs when she smiles, who is magic, who is art...
AUTHOR
Carga consigo más decepciones que aciertos, más heridas que trofeos y muchas más soledades que abrazos.
De los quinientos defectos que tiene, cuatrocientos noventa y nueve le pertenecen, el otro resto es inventado; pero no le pesan, porque aprendió a quererlos, a mejorarlos, a llevarlos, como lleva la sonrisa en la boca, aunque le duelan los labios.
Ella es un sueño de carne y hueso, un ángel de fuego, un universo con alma, un planeta extraño.
Es la que le puso coraje a todo cuando el mundo le dio la espalda.
Ella, la que está dolida y baila, la que está hundida y viaja, la
que tiene miedo y acelera; la que se mantiene fiel y no cambia.
Perfectamente imperfecta, nada de belleza estándar.
Distinta a todas, loca, furiosa, rebelde, apasionada.
Esa a la que le apagan la luz y más brilla, a la que le tapan el sol y más renace, la que puede ser semilla, árbol, flor y primavera.
Ella es la lluvia que inunda cuando llora, grita su dolor en forma fuerte, irradia, impone y del sufrimiento ella surge.
La mujer que carga con un cuerpo que a veces no soporta, la que se tiñe de defectos y se inventa en un solo día la rabia de labios rojos que desafía todas causa de derrota.
Completa, rota, partida, agria, así toda imperfecta, se ondea con cautela frente a los ojos del mundo, se estremece en las manos del mismo infierno, dura, áspera, hostil, voluble un día y amante por meses.
Grandiosa como la mires, en ruinas, como el mayor de los derrumbes.
No necesita las manos de nadie, pero si la abrazas sabrás de qué está hecha.
Impredecible, así es ella, mujer libre, mujer con sueños, fantástica, única.
Esa mujer que vive en ti, en mí, esa maravillosa mujer imperfecta que repara cuando sonríe, que es magia, que es arte...
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