When I think of you, Marilou, I think of someone faking smiles.
Not out of insincerity.
You shift your face because you have to, it’s automated, it’s required.
And you know you have to keep going.
You come home and you want to cry.
Cry all those smiles away.
So that the real ones can surface.
But then you are all alone.
They pay for it, the female grin.
If it’s not there, something’s wrong.
It’s not tolerated.
And, Marilou, you are drained, you keep giving your best and they keep pulling the plug.
You bury your face in your pillow.
The soft grave of tears unclaimed.
The agony upon your lips.
The “be nice”, “be nice”, “be nice” dogma slapping you whilst you dream.
There is no gratitude for your socialised deformation.
Your face is an acrobat.
Your voice is a leak, Marilou, you stick your life elsewhere.
The truth may not always be a grin, they don’t know that, cannot appreciate that.
They encourage the pseudo-perfected clown.
Aiming to please, aiming to give never to receive.
You reek of hopes and visions and ambitions.
All of them having nothing to do with them and their fake appetites.
“Frau im Profil mit Goldhaube” by Eduard Veith (1858-1925)