Can You Use Any Nail Polish With Konad

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Water and Red

Lupita Rios Mayorga

I confess, Father. Today I have sinned in every way possible. I ate almonds red, until you feel your blood chewed milky between his lips. I killed two hundred grams of almonds ... No, not all. Also shattering the sweet flesh of the mango, tenderly ... like biting my own nipples, as if touched with a finger the pink top of my breast. I have sinned, Father. Excuse me, but forgive all because there are many sins that do not mean. Okay, okay ... I have sinned a man drinking syrup miniatures with rainbows and bees that distilled drops of gold by sting. I have sinned by speaking words demonized as Love, Hope and Charity. sinned sins that do not exist because the pain is not in their inventory of faults, and you know, sir? Pain is a common and despicable sin, yes, sir. I have it here, thick and sludge ponds me blue form so dense that anoint my aura with phosphoric light, I do expect other things, things I never have, do you mean, Father? See how my sins are only spasms of apathy? Forgive me, because from today I will not believe in the passion of a God who forgets the roses that promised a child November back Year Tree and I could never give and not for lack of my will.

Excuse for today, I feel that there is no more sin, it's all good if my decision declares it. Because I make my breasts, honey panalitos prasma-for all the nectar that flows into my room to bring that child fed fireflies at dawn and pay me with delicious fruit all what I expected of him that did not come when needed. Forgive me if my
vertices sounds an echo of her child's voice, is eager to wrap their little fingers with raw, with saliva and water to quench thirst even more toxic.

Forgive me if I apologize for the last time, Father. From now on all my vocation will be your moods. No, his name only exists for me. It's charm that I keep in my ribs, it is a sapphire mirror that reflects a woman who is not me, is a violet that remains fresh throughout the year, is a heritage cruise to paradise, is my little secret fantasy, peep my ghost, my cabin profane, blood to which I aspire, the oxygen we breathe, the sleepless nights I prefer, I am happy that fatigue is Cantabria in a bowl of carnations, is Merida in a glass of horchata cosmic and venom I drink your insatiable deepest abyss: that lying in his navel. Father, forgive me, but I do not want to be away from his or her eyelids purple iridescent neon. It's a hummingbird singing when he dies, and hovers between the red velvet of my flesh, it is my promised land, my peaceful truth, the madness that heals me of this apathy futile. Father forgive me, but perhaps I believe in God, I do not think more, my child, in sin.