You love the insulting sound of your voice.
I always thought of it as melodious,
When you tried to fool people, convince them that
You were somebody else, not yourself.
Your voice was a salesman indeed, they believed everything.
That voice has so many facets it could throttle the throat.
The listener, dying without knowing it, the sweet sound.
The gong announcing oblivion. Abandon.
Your voice felt like a hammer, never tired, never exhausted.
Blaming me for being alive, for being me, a girl.
A voice so loud that it was used as if to jump over mountains.
I knew the charms of that very voice only from afar.
When women were smiling at you.
Playing nicely. When men looked up to you.
All that deadening honey, the blindness, deafness
To the gargantuan true sound of your voice.
I can still hear it, the echoes, the insults, the terrors,
The harmful words, the malforming infiltrators, the rotten
Intentions, the diminishing foot soldiers, the cruel infantries,
Tongues marching, eroding love and relation, drying out all the chords,
The saliva on my face as you screamed and screamed and screamed at me.
Croque-Melpomene 