Of course I wanted you to be as far away as possible.
You stood for all the demons I had met so far.
You had all these blinding tactics ready.
Blanketing yourself and your crimes with
Other people’s deceived opinions.
You are everywhere.
A bell should be attached to your foot.
The wounds you create are internal
But not considered fatal
Yet they could be in the long run.
We are the healing sex, the recuperative one,
Wounded and constantly reborn, re-invigorated, stitching our skin back together.
We were raised as mistresses of composure.
There is a double sense there.
I’m done performing and crouching.
You will see my face.
My face in yours.
You will look at it.
I will shove my forehead onto yours.
I challenge you.
I have a life within me
That’s unimaginable to you.
My depth is your marshland.
What do you do when you’ve forced someone on their knees
But decides to get back up and becomes taller than you?
You become the shadow that you have always been.
“Tribut an die Blumen” by Conrad Kiesel (1846-1921)
Croque-Melpomene 