“Crisis”, meaning decision, meaning to make a decision, a turning point.
In their history, their love, their horror story.
Galatea’s body lived off the fatal edges of Celestia’s skin.
Cold-hearted cliffs, with grey inner lives and branded shapes, sun-baked.
She came back to me with a stutter, with declining fears and careless sentiments.
Her triggering smile erased every sense of inflammation.
She held my skin and clasped it, possessive, her nose enchanted.
Her nostrils glanced over my fibres and we were one.
She gorgonised my features, she thrust her dripping hands into my ribcage
And moulded and rummaged, the scavenger woman, unfolding and smothering.
I sensed her disaster-bringing physicality beneath my skin where my blood had been
Arrested at her touch, never-ending, ever-hungry, feasting and chewing, spitting me out.
“Contemplation” by Ignace Spiridon (1848-1930)