You’re stuck in his marshlands, his golden words.

You don’t look like him; I knew who he was by the

Palm of his hand. You think it was love? He was obsessed

To hold on to all the things he had already lost. The immaterial

That was never there for good reasons. She could never walk out

Because she was never really there. When he reeked of other women’s

Genitals and fell into the bed to enter her too, she opened like a dead flower.

 

And he raised you, this man, walking hand in hand with sad women.

And she, with her big belly, carrying life that he would gradually suffocate.

Put into his hands, out of his mind, the grand conversationalist who never

Listens, never pays attention, with the gullible tongue, the man with a million

Stories up his sleeve. Would I ever trust men like him too? Would I insult my

Own intelligence like that? Was sex that important in this equation?

I had rendered him transparent when I was a little girl, when his heart gave me away.

 

He thought he had me all figured out because he made me,

Because I behaved like him before all the destruction and chaos,

I acted like he did before he became artificial and pretentious.

He saw me as weak and vulnerable, he wanted to refine me, transform

My skin into stone. I was not supposed to cry. He beat himself right out

Of me. The antagonism is burned into my organs. The self-loathing and the

Grinning mouth. The fist hidden behind the back, the slaughterhouse in his heart.

Rippl_Woman_in_black_hat_c._1910

“Woman in black hat” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)

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