Inside of Leopoldina is a well.
It never ends, the circulation of heartache.
The blocked corridors, the madhouse.
The desire to scream to move mountains.
The desperation for him to see.
Shedding the skin of his carelessness and her invisibility.
She feels ugly to him.
Too big a word, it does not fit.
What is he referring to exactly?
Why is he still trying to touch her skin?
Why does his repulsion not stop him to persevere his pleasures?
What is he made of that he can perform his lies so well?
And she believes them all as his fingertips mark her silhouette.
He overcomes himself to reach his own emptiness.
She thinks he is capable of love and tenderness.
She couldn’t do the same thing.
The eclipsing of truth.
And as he leaves in disregard,
He leaves too much of himself in her.
And the only thing she will ever see of him again
Is the back of his head.
“Mary Magdalene” by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912)