Your fingers created her body.
As they traced her skin, consoling
The inconsolable, the irrecuperable,
You’ve stolen something from her and you
Cannot give it back to her, where it belongs.
You procastinated her self-erasing origins.
You stare at her features and can’t look her in the eye.
She asks herself why and chews off her fingers.
Thinking about you, the steps you took within her body.
Subduing who she is. You want her differently.
She had been born with your fingers in her throat.
Your tormenting agencies behind her back, the freezing air.
“Portrait of a young Lady with a Letter” by Jean-Baptiste Santerre (1651-1717)