I’ve hurt her.
Deeply.
Nothing did she know.
Did she deserve it?
No.
She already suffered.
We both did.
I bowed to the disaster inside of me.
I knew better and yet I wanted to feel alive.
We never trade our secrecies. All these closeted tears.
We were both girls in teenaged bodies.
They wanted more. From us.
We felt obliged.
Our bodies had been indoctrinated.
We internalised the bestial with its mouth wide open.
Teeth awakening our senses.
Burying our conscience. Deep.
We killed each other in a circle.
Holding hands.
Sad little girls; it shouldn’t have been this way.
I walk along the graves of infants and middle-aged people,
And I keep on walking because I don’t want to imagine the end.
Not like this. Suffocated by heaps of dirt and earth, secluded from all the love
That I’ve felt arise when it was almost too late.
And I look at the polished surfaces and realise that I am not made of stone.
“La Mort de Malvina” by Ary Scheffer (1795-1858)
Croque-Melpomene 