Leonidas, you grew so strong.
Trampling on all the shadows and teeth.
Locked at your heel. You sounded like an instrument.
When you escaped.
As you ran you looked back so often.
And you fell into things, against them, bruising your skin.
Leonidas, you had no idea what you were running towards.
Driven you were in the eclipse of death.
Endings were never the matter that scared you the most.
It’s to be slaughtered in the name of love. Of kinship and order.
A pattern of manners and etiquette.
A hand that drags you with it into the satin coffin.
Stop running it screams, the veins on it vibrating in bitterness and undigested anger.
Undiluted memories killing the air in the body.
Matters unspoken, cruelties pulsating across the growing toenails.
Every step hurts. A hand feels like two.
One heart sprung from the other.
Born as a grey girl from all the transferred sorrow.
It’s a voice that cannot be alone.
With itself and everything it holds.
Vanishing across the globe, there’s the satin again.
It doesn’t happen quietly.
Trumpets and furors. On the carpet the human element.
The disacceptance of endings, this way, this time, me, you and I.
Leonidas spoke a truth and built a fortress around herself.
Flesh and blood. The brain is bad at distances.
A tower of drawers all vibrating from the hollering voices.
There is no silence in this death.
The drawers cannot be refurbished, they’re old.
They shiver as they are, ever unfinished.
Leonidas rises up and down, floating in the dust devil of her heartache.
She cannot lay eyes on him because he cannot let go.
He can’t make it through the night.
He is a part of her, they are so alike.
She betters the negatives and keeps the good parts.
Because she doesn’t want to decompose before the satin comes,
Crouch before her paralysing fears, poisoned by never-ending wrath.
Feeling safe with herself amidst tight borders.
“L’Épave ou l’Italien” by Jean Benner (1836-1906)