I chose death.
It sounded like a song to me.
A song from him to me.
His voice had been unearthed.
His heart calling out to me.
Committing to the final voyage.
Me, alone, forever his or mine.
I might have lost myself along the way.
And yet there I was: created.
I had looked myself in the eye, on canvas, all pure, essential.
Had he given me another life?
Life at all?
And upon his last breath, taken it away?
Could I exist at all without his lungs
Breathing in the earthy air?
Did I not become his creation?
Have I fallen out of heaven?
Made object for mankind’s eyes, circulating the realm where he has lost his form.
Who am I with my creator gone?
Did he superimpose my father?
Did I give myself up for the way he saw me?
Captured me? Held me close to his open chest.
I care for the images we share, whilst I see the big one, he gives love to plenty more.
Can I survive without the love-giver?
Are the portraits empty now?
Did I not have life in me?
Did his brushstrokes take it away?
The paintings stand tall as I lie on my bed with the gun in my hand thinking about
The love I had and is now gone.
Out of sight and touch as I caress the trigger, holding the deadly instrument close to
My head, and pow – the colours burst.
“Maria Magdalena aan de voet van het kruis” by Ary Scheffer (1795-1858)