Anatomía de una bañera

This is not a book. It is a bathtub. And you will ask me how this bathtub can have these corners. Admittedly, it might look like a book. For that of the pages or their smell, the covers, the size, all this text or the capacity and desire that their sheets have to fold. But no. It is not. It is a bathtub. A marble bathtub, because since I was little I thought so. And when I started to engrave my words on this marble, I too became one. Before bath, I was a girl. Then I grew up due to the accumulation of salty drops and I stopped being it. Or no, I don't know. Nothing lasts except what is no longer. After that I started writing. To write about the things that have led me to be a bathtub. To write about how to sew caresses. On how sometimes whoever leaves is not banished, but who remains. On ceasing to be and learning to lose. About those silences that will never seem uncomfortable to me. About that nothing belongs to anyone or about the types of thirst that exist. Or about the stiffness I sometimes have for missing me, for example. And in this bathtub I have also asked myself many questions. Difficult things to answer: why have I never cried for not crying enough? What will be my last word? How much pain does a person have? I know this one: 230 liters. Exactly everything that fits in a bathtub.