I compose a poem around you like a thornbush.
Twisting and turning.
The story grasping you by all limbs.
You aggrandise me finally, let me grow, on my own terms.
I needed to exorcise myself.
Needed to cut the ties, your bruising cavalry.
Used to the sight of my eyelids.
Ignorant of the colour deep inside of me.
The thought of your name carries blood.
You have stomped on them all and they blow kisses your way.
You grand manipulator.
I compose a poem to smoke you out.
Your violence floating in every room.
The readiness to fight and distort and narrate.
Straightjacketing my voice. Mine against yours.
Who cares? For you? Everybody.
The solitary confinement is all mine.
A belief system against the way my body works against yours.
I compose a poem to remember my own narrative.
To never forget that you were the one with malicious intents.
“Maria Maddalena in estasi” by Artemisia Gentileschi (1593-c.1656)
Croque-Melpomene 