Hay una rabia que no grita,
que se sienta a la mesa conmigo
y aprende a tragarse la sopa
mientras alguien, sin saberlo,
me clava su torpeza como un alfiler.

No hay condena más lenta
que convivir con la estupidez ajena
que se cree luz
y reparte sombra sin mirar.
Y saber que el mundo podría estar de mi lado,
que bastaría un gesto,
pero el gesto no llega.

Me llaman inocente en el juicio social:
un expediente abierto en cada mirada,
una sentencia escrita antes de mi voz.
Nadie me ve inocente;
ven la condición, el rótulo, la falta.
Y yo cargo mi verdad como prueba secreta.

Que nadie confunda mi silencio:
no es absolución,
es la rabia aprendiendo a no romperme.
Aunque nadie me crea,
sigo siendo inocente
de la herida que no causé
y culpable, tal vez,
solo de saberlo.

---

There is a rage that does not shout,
that sits at the table with me
and learns to swallow its soup
while someone, unknowingly,
drives their clumsiness into me like a pin.

There is no slower condemnation
than living with another’s stupidity
that believes itself light
and deals out shadow without looking.
And to know the world could be on my side,
that one gesture would suffice,
but the gesture does not come.

They call me innocent in the social trial:
a file opened in every glance,
a sentence written before my voice.
No one sees me as innocent;
they see the condition, the label, the fault.
And I carry my truth like secret evidence.

Let no one mistake my silence:
it is not acquittal,
it is rage learning not to break me.
Though no one believes me,
I remain innocent
of the wound I did not cause
and guilty, perhaps,
only of knowing it.