behind the fridge there are hidden words

SEÑORITA.-- What a lovely town this has grown to be.

VENDEDORA.-- Such a lovely town, indeed. Come sit, Sweet. The flowers that wilted away, came back to walk this place. We live on a stage, the props left their hats on the chair, they won’t be going back home.

SEÑORITA.-- What a life it is. (Hums.) A midnight sun of beauty, burning bright. (To herself.) Burnt at the bones, because of a fire I know of, but still... Bewitching. The flowers drink blood, they live on a ground shrouded in things seen -- never spoken aloud, pressed in a sealed box. Sucesos that sit with their faces to the wall, never to be noticed; painted over with new paint, old paint in their mouths.

VENDEDORA.-- Like a phoenix rising from its ashes, Sweet. How, it fits since there was a fire here. (Sighs.) Much that left this town stained, though still happily ever in an after we imagine. There, (Points to a dull piece of blackness.) at that old barn, you see.

SEÑORITA.-- (Looks in the direction the Vendedora points to.)

VENDEDORA.-- A castle or a barn, what difference do the dragonflies make of sand molecules. (Sighs.) A fire and a death. At your behest, Sweet, I speak of it.

SEÑORITA.-- (Gasps upon hearing of the death.)

Turn to: Clocks tick on, lights fade, worlds tremble.

SEÑORITA.-- A death? (To herself.) No. We didn’t. No deaths left on the doorstep. No blood, no blame. That’s how we left it. That’s how it went.

(Silence. Hear the wind try to move, with its toes on the sand, silently and quietly. How it fails, miserably.)

VENDEDORA.-- Yes, Sweet. A fire captured someone in its whole. What a tragedy. Don’t cry his name out loud, don’t stand in one place, don’t throw yourself over that chair. It’s alright. It’s OK. I haven’t the slightest idea of how tall he stood or how grey his beard, but I’m not sure if you knew him, my dear.

SEÑORITA.-- (Silence. It stretches, betwixt the ash and smoke left behind.) (To herself.) Deaths left on the doorstep. Blood and blame. That’s not how we left it. That’s not how it should have gone.

Oh lots of fun and creative pieces! I can tell there's a whole world of work behind some of these! I think my favorite poem of yours so far here is "inhale, exhale" - a great metaphor for dealing with something toxic, and the formatting paired very nicely with the concept of breathing and the content in general. Great plays with form throughout! Looking forward to reading more!

Roughly translated version

Spoiler

i am a bird
Voilà. I will be a bird with
wings in the sky. Soon, I will
be that. But the air is full of molecules that
can freeze.
I’ll be a bird that lives in a jar of honey then.
Sweet is the honey, like the things we promised.
Caring is the honey, that keeps us safe.
Glue is the honey, it traps us and it won’t let go.

So voilà, voilà. I am a bird,
and the game is the honey.