He brought her into his room.
The quarters of devastation.
Where he cuts her air off.
His misery outspoken.
You devil did this to yourself.
Annora Aimée at his bedside.
The caring one, the suffering one.
He grabs her hand and makes it cold.
She looks at him for hours.
Unfortunately she sees herself and feels throttled.
She can’t get out of her skin.
He knows that as he spreads the blanket.
The room is a trap and a spotless crime scene.
Only she can see the damage.
The unison binds her to pity, languishing in sadness.
She knows there is nothing to hold on to, he is a teacher of disturbances.
As he welcomes her to wither by his side, his sickness narrates the story.
But he pretends he doesn’t feel it, he will never go away and she has to stay.
He gave too much, she needs to know what it feels like, the torment, the agony.
This is how he pretends to heal, as she collapses in the corner of his room, exhausted and bleak.
“Portrait of Mary Blanche Hubbard” by Mary Curtis Richardson (1848-1931)
