During the time that my hand reached yours
I lied to myself. I painted you in mild colours.
Adorned you. You had the cruellest imagination.
And you were aware of it, crowned yourself with its
Fruits and corpses and distorted faces. I remember you
In my nightmares, where everything turns cold and ashen.
You want life to fade away in the palm of your hands,
Your treacherous grasp. You don’t welcome reactions.
You observed her disintegration, it revived you, the impact
She allows you to have on her. Because she still believes in
The sanctimonious words you preach and sexualise. In love.
She’s a child inside and that’s your speciality, you dig up what has buried itself alive.
“Portrait of a Lady” by Jules Lefebvre (1834-1912)
