I wonder where her language is.

When and why she lost it.

Why everything she utters is abandoned before it crosses her lips.

I look at her facial movements to understand who she is.

But she strains it, composes it rigorously, to hide her own death.

 

How would her skin feel if I touched it?

Would it collapse into a million pieces?

Would they all single-handedly betray their maker?

Would they speak for themselves?

Unabsorbed, amputated, fading away as they crawl silently?

 

I see solitude in this woman, a dead child, a girl stopped by time and cruelty.

The mother’s hands dug in too deeply.

The heart had been suffocated and crushed, the voice erased.

The shadows formed a constipated blanket.

That’s the face in front of me, dehumanised and eternally suppressed.

800px-Eleonora_Duse,_by_Vittorio_Matteo_Corcos_(1859-1933)

“Portrait of Eleonora Duse” by Vittorio Matteo Corcos (1859-1933)

 

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