The fiends crossed when you switched identities, Camiglia.
You deformed your innards to fit their monstrosity.
And they stared, questioning you.
You acted so convincingly.
And you became the queen of loss.
Your very own puppeteer.
They love to eat souls, devour them, create shadowlands with broken busts.
They jump to crush what they see.
But you know the whistle of solitude.
They cut you off when you have something to say.
You feel your backbone disintegrating.
But you own the depth that they would drown in.
Camiglia, the way you looked.
As yourself, as a child.
Amongst a bed of flowers with your brothers and sisters.
With friends. The photographic lens: deeply in love.
And nothing seemed to be going wrong.
“Ophelia” by Alexandre Cabanel (1823-1889)
