The radiator desperate to warm up a morgue-room in winter.
Where it all happened, the deepest level.
Pounds of flesh on glacial marble.
Close to her mother’s birhday.
She walked home in the early hours of the morning.
A boy with chopped lips erasing her tenderness.
His smell threatening in its familiarity.
He sees Inés as an object to possess and not hold dear.
Carving the same old phrase onto every girl’s chest.
Proud to be the recipient of desire as the girls deform themselves and who they are.
Winter colours metamorphosing into spring cascades of adoration.
The boy is proud of the violence that girls produce.
How they shred each other to pieces for his dedication, a thing out of reach.
And he keeps her quiet.
And he keeps her oblivious.
Inés keeps failing with him.
He comes back to all of them, they all believe in miracles.
Overshadowing each other, scratching towards the limelight, his favouritism.
A song ill-played, you fool.
The father has sex with other women.
None of them says no.
The mother doesn’t care.
Inés acts like her father, the women that he likes, pretends not to care and
Ends up weeping like her mother.
“Two Women” by Eugène Carrière (1849-1906)