We wear glitter on our faces.
Pushing life outside of us.
Shoving death inside our bodies.
Paying the tax because death is a luxury.
Our faces are sold to us.
We see them everywhere. On buses, trams, banners and buildings.
Travelling across our memory.
It’s all incompatible.
And we deny what’s within ourselves and shave it all away.
Never will we fit into the reductive frame.
That only offers and allows the same old shape.
They infect us, they sell us rotten fruit, perfection.
Never on the inside.
Our body parts fall off and are deformed.
Young girls cry because they have healthy bodies. Since when?
What creates life is exploited.
We put glitter on our faces.
Mother Earth, money carries a stamp.
The stamp is called carelessness.
We are playing the game with our bare hands.
They take everything away from us.
We are paying the price.
Drowning amongst numbers and statistics.
We, the faceless anomalities with the phantom pains.
And we paid.
Told to. You miseducated us.
Spending our lifetimes on hospital beds.
With backward sadists preaching to us there’s nothing wrong with us.
Our bodies are lying.
They know that we’re dying.
They put it inside of us.
But we stem from Mother Earth.
You know that she has her own ways.
We are the ones surviving loss, blood and all the demons your images created around us.
The environment we live in.
And you keep trying to rub salt on wounds that we already cured ourselves.
“La Bacchante” by Gustave Courbet (1819-1877)