Her body contained so many stories.
Some alleviating.
Others traumatising.
Every part of her has a scent.
Her entire body is a burial,
Losing herself,
A cover-up.
Artifice is her blanket.
Nothing is left as it is.
Her body is forced into
Never-ending u-turns.
And then she invites them in.
Lovers of what is fake,
Those who agonise over the fragility
Of make-belief.
Little children.
Boys and girls
Who don’t know how to play with each other.
She is naked and yet
Tries to hide from him.
He cannot understand.
It’s a no for herself, a yes for him.
And a million nuances in-between.
“Woman Wearing Hat with Black Ostrich Feather” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)
Croque-Melpomene 