She went unloved.
From body to body.
Past to past.
The burdening brand, the fire sculptor.
Suffocated by what made her female.
In their eyes, the gaze oppressive, master narrator.
She won’t let them hold her hand.
She tries to kill them all off like flies.
Without the entanglement of her young mind.
Extracting the grudges.
Expulsating the lifted fingers, the judges, the unclean vests.
Their words a distortion factory.
Had they ever listened to themselves?
Their unholy euphoria?
Their appetite for female disaster?
Licking their lips, rubbing their hands.
Unwholesome chapters, never healers, infiltrators.
They see the wound and smile.
The road that opens up.
And she believes in fairy-tales.
The piano dark, tunes enveloping, garments parade.
Lover sociopath. Body narcissist.
The mind a bathtub, confining, the water diluting the poison.
Erasing his hands from her skin.
Body memory, friend of mine.
Treat me better than I treat you.
But then, the answer goes: “we’re in the same boat”,
And that’s when self-love grows.
“Sleeping Woman with a Peacock” by Léon Comerre (1850-1916)