The dead mother roams through her body alive with her terrors.
You infected her with a dysfunctional language, with violent silence.
You hover, a threat, an unspeakable force of nature, disjointed, terrifying.
Your heart forced the girl into your inevitable obscurities, unfathomable.
You wouldn’t suffer alone, you wouldn’t become a mother, you constricted her.
A woman so sour, detached, in agony, you loathed the sight of the child.
What you gave life to, what you felt forced to nurture, what you wanted dead.
She inherited you and your sickening schemes, your fatalistic mind, your negligence.
What have you done to her? You never felt responsible. She conjures up the deceased
And unlearns life. She touches the cold skin and thinks of love and harvest, isolated.
She apprehends you everywhere, the words you spoke to her, to annihilate
Her. You never fully committed to it. You wished you had. The malevolence
Could be found in the structure of your demented bones. What a life you ejected.
You never had a mother’s gaze, and she felt it on her body, every single day, the
Unwanted and penetrant gaze of a dormant murderer, tormenting everybody with her indecisiveness.
“Portrait of a Woman” by Amedeo Modigliani (1884-1920)