The Suffocation of Intimate Particles

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I can’t imagine who taught you how to love and hold.

The room you grew up in must have been empty, your

Cries never heard and you infect your mannerisms with

Lack and unseen violence. You acknowledge her body, the tender

Absorbing skin, your perpetrating tongue graveling its path. She

Only finds lovely repercussions because you temporarily shoved your dilemmas aside.

 

But you’ll always listen to your voices. At times your age surfaces, but you subdue it.

The abandoned room catches up with you, takes you back every time and she enters

A space parallel to it and goes there to be loved. To feel your scent eating her up entirely.

She never realises how you end up a blemish on her skin, a texture of malice and denial.

She can’t detect the poverty of your intentions, that you cannot stand yourself, that you

Have no mirrors, yet keep revitalising the image they all believe in and that always dies

In that horrid room because you deprive yourself of oxygen.

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“A cantora de ópera Lina Cavalieri” by Giovanni Boldini (1842-1931)

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