He infested her with his insecurities.
His voice is in her eyes when she looks in the mirror.
And she chews and swallows every breath.
His life was an irritation to him, hers too.
And he looked at what he had created and shrugged.
Repulsed, irresponsible, careless, he let her figure everything
Out on her own and found solace in her tears, not his own.
They all overuse the word “love”,
And it took me years to understand that all
Too often, they abuse it too, they don’t know what
It implies, what it stands for, what it truly means.
The sound of it coming out of rotten mouths so very
Often would make me sick. The intent ever-absent.
Don’t hold me in your putrescent arms.
Fine, you rejected me at birth.
You let me pretend to be an adult
When I was a kid. I had to be tormented
The same way that you had been. We had to be so alike.
You wanted me to know what pain is. You called it “life”.
You called it “love” when you came at me.
For my own good. Always. It took me a long time to finally
Understand why the word “love” would enrage me to the bone.
“Porträt der Lily Disgeistes” by Albert von Keller (1844-1920)
Croque-Melpomene 