Nobody was there to pick up the shards.
She looked at them all and all she could
Think about was the word “disruption”.
She sat on the heavy tiles like a child.
She would cover it all up, everything, who
She was. With incompatible items and camouflage.
She had buried herself in her own face.
A funeral galloped beneath her skin every single day.
When air reached her pores and her childhood erupted
Once more the sadness would sting her, the endless
Vulnerability. The violence against her proper self had
Long been integrated, the automatic voices that put everything down.
It was the outside, the defiance, everything she harvested
And never wanted or asked for. Disconnected from herself.
Replaced with outside faces, fake traces, wrong intentions.
Even though she always felt her very own truth tumble around.
“Gabrielle Réjane as a young actress” by Théobald Chartran (1849-1907)