As she tried to hold his hand, he disappeared.
The sudden solitude was violent.
He counteracts expectations and now she stares into her own void.
Asking herself why she feels destroyed.
Women parade around him, smiling, Sadie is flabbergasted.
When did his love end?
She has none left for herself, despises herself because he does.
Mother, where is my backbone?
She lies awake in her sheets, scratching her skin.
Her nails never sharp enough for her disappointment.
She never reaches the depth.
Her repressed breathing slaughters her heart.
Bonne Sadie, where is your father?
She runs around and seeks attachment.
She thinks that she can’t stand on her own.
And they push her down, hold her neck, and she lets them.
It’s an incantation. Sadie lets demons sleep beside her.
They vanish before the sun rises.
Solitude her worst enemy, it signifies rejection.
She is a collector of scars.
Sadie leans against every wall and feels incomplete.
They all peck her as they walk by, dance around, she hears their grimaces in her mind.
Bonne Sadie you’re fatherless, motherless, you don’t know what love is.
Staring at your own hands and you feel estranged, driven away.
Desperate as you have no sensation in your fingertips, just heartache.
Because you can’t love yourself first.
“Portrait of Donna Olga Caracciolo” by Jacques-Émile Blanche (1861-1942)