She hid her head in the embrace of her own body.
The bitterness of her heart affected her posture.
She grew up thinking that she could save the world.
Their voices crawled into her skin and claimed its warmth.
Their insistence would make her tremble, they had no soul,
They were made out of bones as sharp as swords.
Their joylessness haunted her, they needed to feast, and
Infiltrated whatever they could to get close to her.
Her efforts were counterproductive, they’d call her paranoid,
But she was the only one who recognised the old alchemy of deceit.
She understood their silly little games, what people do when they feel
Incurably empty and meaningless, they’d take it out on her skin.
“Isidora” by an ancient artist from Roman Egypt
Croque-Melpomene 