Jacqueline Roque’s Gunshot

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)