I am kneeling on my own.
Learned to crouch.
Hold a crumbling back.
Ready to receive, to submit.
Tears a daily gift, a given.
Without them, there is no voice.
The blood flows gently into my head.
My heart is going to fall through my mouth.
I hold everything back and master the suffocation.
I am intoxicated.
Raised amongst no silver lining ashes.
A blinded fool, remove the tastebuds.
I am on my knees because that’s how I feel that I’m there.
I am entire.
My organs are crushed because I make myself small.
I think there is no room for me.
I am the bridge. For her heels. For his crotch.
I cannot expand, I lead nowhere. Myself. To nowhere.
When I stretch, she is disturbed.
When I take a deep breath, she is astonished, perplexed, disoriented.
I’ve outgrown the box she kept me in.
The hand-me-down energiser, empathiser.
As I walk away I feel how tall I really am. My posture is mine to uphold.
There will be no composure for you anymore.
“Bacchante” by Frederic Leighton, 1st Baron Leighton (1830-1896)
