I never got rid of the grief within me.

This disconnection between my toes and my hands.

The adult glance, the merry youthful movements and indiscretions.

 

For what can I not forgive myself?

That I was given a package full of sorrow and accepted the camouflage?

That I had no conscience whatsoever once?

 

The head of a rose ensnares the anatomy of my heart.

I think of their lips and how they never loved me.

And I remember all the times I walked myself home.

 

Have I no right to have peace?

Am I not allowed to enjoy my very own presence

After I exhausted all my other options?

 

I walk past the auburn leaves as they are trampled on across the sidewalk.

I trample on them too, and call it love, love for the sound, that crispy delight,

Don’t my harsh soles, worn-out, accelerate their disintegration exposed on the tarmac?

 

Is it not me, or has it not been me being knocked over by the familial shoe?

I always dragged my face out of the mud and disaster and lovelessness.

I wandered everywhere trying to find those three words, without shedding light into myself.

 

I grew up without their sound, with the incapacity, with sincere condolences, reasons.

I’m the one with all the questions and the shovel extreme.

I look under carpets, mats and rocks and I always find all the pieces that belonged to me.

 

I cannot stomach emptiness, joylessness, my face in grieving distortion.

I refuse to mourn the loss of me, the words that were never given to me,

Until I slammed on doors and howled across deracinating winds, shoving my face

Into parental memories. Only I may see the invisible tears the past had caused.

I refuse to call it over, me, no I lived on and on, my face engulfed in muddy deformations.

I carried a torch within me and a basket to put myself back together again.

Vittoria_Colonna_exibition

“Vittoria Colonna” by Cristofano dell’Altissimo (1525-1605)

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