Un Massacre Aux Fleurs

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)

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