You have an image of her in your head that you can’t get rid of.

You feed it. Hold on to it.

The image is a liar.

You have no patience for the truth.


It’s easier this way.

You don’t hear her, you’re never listening.

You don’t pay attention when people open their mouths and you disintegrate.

You decontextualise and form demons.


Who are you to lift your finger and point?

You, the grand repressor of sentiment and memory.

You tyrant of revisitation and counteraction, reinvention.

You reach for the heart with your fist and tightening grasp.


You tormentor dressed in white.

Washing your hands clean.

You pretender, with the shards up your sleeve.

You juggle the image of her in your head.


Your opinion is a fixed one.

Whatever she does it won’t have any impact.

And you pirouette and pirouette across a landscape of frustration and anger.

And you make a martyr out of yourself, oh, what you must endure.


The golden boy in the room.

All the women kneeling, silencing themselves, making themselves small.

You cripple them all, and their greatest compensation: the ephemeral smile on your lips.

It’s not worth it. It doesn’t hold.


And they keep beating each other up because you will never be happy.

And they keep dancing and making sacrifices to the golden boy.

He mistreats each and every one of them and their blindness grows.

All they need is to think that they are in charge of his temperament.


They can’t see, he never loosens his fist.

He has no idea who he is.

They do and yet they bow.

What a crime that is, the witnesses, the passivity.


It’s a shame carried within.

They watch each other being crushed like pismires.

As long as the golden boy is quiet and happy, kept at ease, it’s good enough.

Please, please, don’t disturb the peace, the golden boy’s serenity needs to be maintained.

And the women pay for it with their lives and bodies and sanity.


“Head of a girl” by Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519)

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