At some point I ended up in several drawers,
One foot in the lowest one,
A hand in the upper one,
My head banging against the renovated wood.
I would walk by and they didn’t need to use words.
And if they did, they were swords ready to assassinate.
My body a globe entangled in a half-circle, to be inspected,
To be judged up close, to be torn apart with disapproval.
They observe, silently, elaborating what they are going to say
Behind your back, once you’re gone.
Words will find their way to you,
It’s a guarantee, that’s how the torture game goes.
Faces bold with fake innocence and artificial good intentions,
Master manipulators, they abuse the word “friend” as if
You’re in hypnosis and have faith in the swinging of swords.
They extract the deepest insecurities and secrets
And when the stakes are highest, the self-loathing greatest,
They smack you in the face with it, in front of multitudes.
It’s a constant game of chess, too many pawns, the board too small.
I don’t know where I stand, I’m truly alone.
I don’t want to figure out the petty patterns.
I don’t want to be able to function.
I don’t want to speak one lanuage and be understood in another.
What should be simple and straightforward you pervert and corrupt.
The misogynistic girl or woman inflicts incomparable pain.
She assembles hordes, carrying the right sentences in her pocket for every occasion.
She is a collector of things she can later abuse and use against you.
She observes, has perfect timing, operates with meticulous calculation.
A verbal being, eloquent and sharp, there are no fists in this game,
She never leaves a trace, it happens in our heads, in our bodies,
She crawls underneath my skin and laughs and scratches.
I don’t know why I abide by her rotten mouth,
End up manipulating myself, gaslighting myself,
She got into my head.
It’s me. I blame myself.
I need to lose weight, be blonde, wear make-up on every body part, smoke.
And I idealise a degenerated heart.
I know she is a demon and yet I clothe her in the robes of a queen.
That’s why she won’t let go.
The never-ending succubus.
Her face is a light-hearted enabler of charades and ambiguities,
Mind games define her every move.
She describes me with the worst vocabulary,
And I haven’t done anything else than give her shelter and affection.
You suck the life out of me
And nothing ever happens to you,
You are never facing consequences,
Never reveal signs of remorse, you are so aware, you cry when society demands it.
Who made you this way?
Who taught you this behaviour?
Who rendered you heartless and vicious?
Who told you to devalue and torment your own sex?
Who preached to you that you ought to be ever-critical?
Who lived by example and demonstrated their own rejection of women?
Who made you believe that you yourself are worthless and one of them, of us, and
Don’t deserve to be loved but should be turned to dust?
“A girl in classical dress bearing tuli” by George Lawrence Bulleid (1858-1933)