My body moves according to my thoughts, I gesticulate loneliness.
There is an infant running thin across my skin, spread out, flat.
I contain turbulences, mortality, a zest to maintain who I am now, not who
I was. I dance with myself, strangling, wrestling, loving as I cry and bleed.
I sit there in front of the lights and cannot move as my mind turns to you.
And what you have done, what we both destroyed, what we both misnamed
Friendship, togetherness, intimacy. I learned so much it all hurts and burns.
Always aches as I shed light on memories. I look at myself, younger vulnerable,
And I try to empathise, but I terrorise, her, myself, I don’t leave her alone, I
Can’t stop the urge to perfectionise her, to mould her, but I sprang from her.
I won’t tolerate how she looks, how she presents herself, gives herself away,
Her beliefs, her toxic environment, her rotten choices, the moments she captured.
I’m reminded of her every single day, there cannot be a separation. We were made for
Each other. I learn how to love her, abandon my projections, my desire to change her,
Stop deranging what has been, leave her alone, in peace, with myself, in safety, hold her within me.
“Girl with Yellow Shawl” by Vittorio Matteo Corcos (1859-1933)