You painted her in black and white.
Picking out what you want to hear about her, from her.
You don’t want anything to do with her.
You want to design your own image of her.
And then, when all of your efforts fail, you can’t control your rage.
You never could.
There is a fire in your stomach.
And they are all waving their hands, walking miles and miles for the erasing water.
But not you.
You think that’s their job, their destiny, their original fault, inherited guilt.
They are trying to quench it 24/7.
Keep you at ease, because you need to smile.
Because if you let the fire grow bigger,
Their lives are all in danger.
They are trying to survive indeed.
But somehow they can’t step away from you, the absorber of energy.
They think of you as the centre of their lives.
The truth is you are their demise and you’re not even disguised.
You are a product of them all, a sad repetition.
Words have lost all meaning. Your actions show it all.
The animal inside of you.
The toxicity, hyper-reactive, always in frustration.
You bring out the worst in everybody.
That’s how you play.
She cannot talk to you.
You decontextualise her and put the wrong words on the golden scales.
You deconstruct her and make her less than human.
You never point the finger at yourself.
You will not drag her into your agonising past, never overcome, always resurfacing.
You think of yourself as a hero, but you haven’t stepped forward.
You fake everything you touch.
She doesn’t trust your smile.
It’s not true. When will the bottle come?
Can you not see it?
The truth shall not be spoken, scream the waterbringers.
And then the exclusion happens, the shifting of their own rage, projecting it onto her.
For opening her mouth.
His wrath never left. They all lie to themselves.
They can become bestial too, but not against the source of their own anger.
No, against her. She seems to be an easier, more accessible target.
Because she has always used words and compassion.
And they think that’s weak.
They need to hold on to the overpowering beast. Silence.
Gretchen becomes the villain because she cares more about the living of her own life.
And throws away the never-ending agony of carrying heavy buckets.
“Mary Magdalene” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)