Slayer of her unquiet mind, he surrounds her.
His grip is the tightest there is, absent-hearted he lingers on.
She thinks about her parents.
Because she can’t get out.
As she drives through the night, towards a million mistakes, she looks at the trees.
Singing her songs, wondering why she can never be free.
She holds on to the wheel.
As he holds on to her throat, her sorrows, worsening them by allowing her to dream.
Her father is reflected. It is never enough.
In front of him she becomes a beggar.
His heel a torpedo on her mind.
He grasps what she is leaking.
It all falls apart and it makes him smile as he awaits to assemble the shards.
For his own sake and self-esteem.
She looks into the mirror and holds up both her hands.
She sees herself through another’s lense.
Then she remembers how she used to cry herself to sleep.
How deeply she could dream as her tears dried on her pillow.
That’s when she felt loved, in the puddle of her misery.
That’s where he puts her every night and even chases her into her world of dreams.
“Portrait d’une dame, dite Sophie Arnould” by Jean-Baptiste Greuze (1725-1805)