There are two bodies inside of me.

They are wrestling.

One of them waits for the other one to be asleep.

To gain power, to conquer the dormant pacifist.


The overarching trunk pretends to be a blanket.

The lying creature becomes numb and unaware.

Shelter is a lie, a misconception.

He is holding him down, softly, with gradual pressure.


He is a master manipulator, I can neither see nor hear.

My stomach tells me something is the matter.

With me.

What they are doing to me.

What I’m doing, thinking I’m on one track, but I’m on the other.


I betrayed myself and became a destroyer of everything around me.

I spit fire and think I ask for love.

I set my body on fire, and push, push, push it down.

Telling myself that I’m alright, but I’m really not.

He is using his fists and why won’t the other one move?

Why can’t I move?

Why can’t I stand in front of a mirror, absolutely naked, and trumpet

That I love myself and that I deserve a life that truly matters, is of substance, mine.


But I let him torment him, me, inside of me, boxing around, my body howls.

I love him too, he belongs to me, deeply, but his rage needs to go, be toned down,

Transformed into love and creation.

He has the power to annihilate my very innards.


That’s how silence and sickness are brought to life.

The overshadowed one is lying there, barely moving, with all his qualities.

Not knowing how to use them, how to make them shine.

How to make himself seen and heard and listened to.


I separated them, I cut them both in half with my self-doubt and endless loathing.

My wrath and disappointment, I tore them apart.

I am the one to reunite them wholeheartedly.

They complete each other, we, walk in hand in hand.


We hold on to our ideals and ethic, our self-worth and what we can give.

I will not absorb the pain, feel comforted by agony, become my own devil.

I will not let destruction become a part of me again,

That’s how I was reborn, I shed that skin,

And created my self anew.


“Dance” by Alfons Mucha (1860-1939)

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