Three hours earlier. (Inglés/español)

I want to know how much you want me, and if you’re always trying to find me. You knew that girl wasn’t me but you found it similar and just carried on. But she was not like me at all, the lights in the bar suggested a resemblance, but when you saw her in the street, you knew it, she wasn’t the one you were looking for. Well, obviously it wasn’t me, I was too far away. You took one of her dark curls but they were softer than mine. You carried on and kissed her, maybe she was just like me inside her mouth but no, her upper lip was way thicker than mine. Just to try it, you grabbed her ass but it was too soft, too perfect and she pressed fingers in the back of your neck, just like I would have done. You walked her home, she was very drunk and invited you in, you refused, it was the right thing to do. She insisted, rubbing her body aganist yours. You took a deep breath and her smell was fading behind all those cigarrettes and glasses of vodka. After saying goodbye so very politely, just like you always do, you walked away. No, she wasn’t me. Not her, not the other girls, none of them was me. An image crossed your mind, it was me in my old black satin nightgown. It was me, with my rough skin full of scars, my body hair, my small teeth and everything. It was so vivid that for a minute you thought I’d be around. Even when you knew it was impossible.

-
Quiero saber cuánto me querés y si siempre estás tratando de encontrarme. Sabías que esa chica no era yo, pero la encontraste parecida y simplemente seguiste. Pero no era para nada como yo, las luces del bar sugerían un parecido pero cuando la viste en la calle, lo supiste, no era la que estabas buscando. Bueno, obviamente no era yo, yo estaba muy lejos. Agarraste uno de sus mechones oscuros pero eran más suaves que los míos. Continuaste y la besaste, creyendo que a lo mejor el interior de su boca se parecería al mío pero no, su labio superior era mucho más grueso que el mío. La agarraste de atrás pero era demasiado suave, demasiado perfecto y ella presionó los dedos contra tu nuca, como yo hubiese hecho. La acompañaste a su casa, estaba muy borracha y te invitó a pasar, la rechazaste, era lo correcto. Insistió, frotando su cuerpo contra el tuyo. Tomaste una bocanada de aire y su olor estaba desapareciendo detrás de todos esos cigarrillos y vasos de vodka. Después de despedirte educadamente, como siempre lo hacés, te fuiste. No, no era yo. Ni ella, ni ninguna de todas las otras. Una imágen cruzó tu mente, era yo en mi viejo camisón negro, con mi piel áspera y llena de cicatrices, mis pelos, mis dientes chicos y todo. Era tan vívida que por un minuto creíste que estaría cerca. Incluso cuando sabías que era imposible.