The interwoven texture of a family is the most volatile skin of all.
He’d peck at her, immersing himself in her without wanting to know
The truth about her. And she would sink down on her knees like a
Murderer who returns to the crime scene and – curtain. She put her forefinger
On her lips and withered, dedicated to dead words and elevated her head to an
Alienating face that pretends to comprehend her fully, dishonour her, dismantle her.
And what do you think you know of her? Why do you think
You understand why she does the things she does? First and foremost to herself?
Why she pities herself before she goes to sleep and hammers her face into her pillow.
Why she desires to be turned to stone, to become cold and heartless, unaffected by the
Circus they all create and you applaud in deepest chicanery. Who were you then? Your
Judgement followed her around like a hunchback always resting, infecting her mind-set.
“Girl Dressed up in Blue” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)