You dragged her into a room filled with mirrors.
She tried to ascend.
And you danced.
Your silhouettes appeared disembodied on the glass.
Jumping from frame to frame and out.
You hold her heart in your hand.
And you can’t let it fall off your fingertips.
It would be too easy.
And you hold her close, ignoring your reflection.
Your head sinking into her shoulder.
This room is her worst fear and she tries to keep up.
She tries to predict every step.
She feels the glances from every mirror, the transparent voices.
The applause for him as he rises and shines.
With every whisper her steps equal a retreat, become smaller.
With every clapping of hands that belongs to you,
The aftermath of cold air scorns her.
You are deaf to what she can hear.
Always has she been accompanied by those alienating voices,
And what you think of as insane has been sanctified for centuries.
It’s a room where she cannot be herself.
Roaming to find herself and hear her own voice. Solitary.
Not the echoes from cheap seats.
The hardest task for her is to confront the surfaces and mute their defamation.
And if you can’t stand behind her and see what she sees,
Your place should be right outside the frame.
“Albaydé” by Alexandre Cabanel (1823-1889)