When crossing the street on an intersection that I walk every day: to be run over by that bus that’s rapidly approaching its stop; to die instantly.
When making breakfast at home: to put my hand over the hot griddle; to feel the raging burn coursing through my skin, melting it away.
When petting my cat on the balcony, running my fingers through her fur, so soft: to extend my hands over the rail, to open my hands, to let her fall.
When sitting at the bookstore’s café, reading the novel my creative writing teacher wrote while he was my teacher: to not see through the corner of my eye someone coming in with a gun, opening fire; my bloodied body laying on the floor next to the red cover of the book my creative writing teacher wrote while he was my teacher.
To light a fire, to let it burn. To grab a knife, to let it cut. To take the pills, to leave none.
When looking into the blue of your eyes, sweet but indifferent: to let myself fall into the deep end, and to sink, and to drift, and to drown, and to die.
Marianne Díaz Hernández (Altagracia de Orituco, Venezuela, 1985). Lawyer, writer and researcher in the intersection between human rights and technology. She has published: Cuentos en el espejo (Monte Ávila Editores, Caracas, 2008, winner of the Contest for Unpublished Authors of Monte Ávila Editores, Narrative), Aviones de papel (Monte Ávila Editores, Caracas, 2011) and Historias de mujeres perversas (El perro y la rana, Caracas, 2013, winner of the I Gustavo Pereira National Biennial of Literature, 2009), and has also been part of the compilations Antología sin fin (Escuela Literaria del Sur, 2013), Voices from the Venezuelan City (Palabras errantes, 2013) , and Nuevo País de las Letras (Banesco, Caracas, 2016). She co-founded the small press Casajena Editoras. Pieces of her work have been translated into English, French and Slovenian. She currently resides in Santiago de Chile.