She whispered that she had no use for modern cemeteries.
What she feared the most was stagnancy and her own unimportance.
She made sure that everybody saw her, heard her when she crossed rooms.
She felt that in every bed, on every street she bathed in insignificance.
Her body twisted her actions into extremes, she never learned how to live.
And she sang silent songs to herself to not collapse in a rustling crowd.
They would all caress her skin for mere seconds and she would still freeze.
A kiss meant something far away, something concluded, assured, relentless.
They evoked a desire only to extinguish it quickly, to rid themselves of her.
She was forgotten the moment the key was turned and she never felt complete.
Maybe, she thought, she was desperate for her father’s love in her rotten sheets.
Maybe, she longed to be held in her mother’s unresponsive arms.
“Portrait of a woman facing right holding a fan” by Frans Hals (1582/3-1666)
