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