And you squeeze and squeeze
Assemble your thick hands in a tightly rounding off clasp,
Your nails, not short, pirouette across my skin as you carve and dissolve,
Put wetness on my walls that I tried to detach from you.
And you force me into your mould, into your deformative
Skeleton, you grind my flesh, and hold me in-between your teeth,
Threading and rotating, in and out, harvesting my glory,
Shatterer of broken leaves and banished clouds.
And you thrust my cheeks captured by your fists,
Ever dancing, ever stomping and fidgeting, like this, like that,
Rendering my features eloquent, mute, smiling, compliant,
You change your mind all the time, my body cannot keep up.
Your fingernails try to penetrate my mind, get a grip on my brain,
The center of my capacities, and you dive in, twisting and screwing,
Installing little pestilent commanders and devil worshippers.
Empty sarcophagi bursting around dried-out waters, laughing as they drown.
I must not lie still, must unbind my hands and reclaim my own body
That you stole with your pretentious entitlement and lack of expression.
You wave your warmongering demands above your monotonous head,
And urge me to listen, but not a tone comes out of your oesophagus.
“Portrait of Varvara Sheremetev” by Ivan Argunov (1729-1802)