She looked out of the window and knew it would be the last time.
The last view.
Abandoning the intimacy of her room.
That had shared all her secrets over the years.
Seen her fall and cry, grow in the trenches.
The yellow walls that held her together.
A sanctuary that she kept to herself.
Given away without her permission.
Built from scratch, manufactured for a dissolving family.
As it was built it fell apart from the inside.
Venusette running out into the wide garden, terrified.
Dislocating her fears, coming up for air, staring at the fence.
The house on the hill, her room amidst the disasters and melancholia.
The hunt for violence, the stairs suggesting closeness, cornered.
Memories hammered onto the tiles, flushed down the toilet, vibrating through the
Drapes of yesterday. Venusette, when you entered you were a child.
A girl who didn’t see the cracks in the glass, touching her mother’s lips.
Piercing through the horizon, imagining an escape route, stuck in pseudo-comfort.
Guilty when she opened the fridge. Ashamed when she came home late at night.
Heartbroken and mute.
From a house afire to a dead one, shifting bosoms, rotten.
The houses with the most beautiful views are the most tormented, dreadful.
As she looks out, always out of the window.
Trying to fabricate them alike, the inside and outside.
He haunts her. She can sense him in the corner of her loosening room.
He is desperate because his life has ended.
And she never came.
He wanders through this garden too.
And she is so drunk that her body is guided by him.
She is getting so close yet she cannot resist.
The earth beneath the house is trembling, tragedies inherited.
As he grabs her tree by the trunk, she vanishes inside and thinks that closed doors
Separate them. Venusette can’t see the cracks in the glass.
“Portrait of Princess Augusta of Great Britain” by Jean-Étienne Liotard (1702-1789)