I invited fog into my brain.
A fog that cancels years.
Barricades and damage control.
Everything that moves I must halt.
I would pretend unawareness.
Be a mother to only one child.
I would throw my own sex on the pyre.
I remember her cruel hands.
The puppet bones creaking beneath
The rigorous flesh.
The mouth that can’t tell right from wrong.
I thought she would rock me to death.
If all women are like her
I will never find reconciliation amongst them.
I would grow to abhor their barbarism.
That we share our anatomy.
That she gave me life, a woman in love with decay.
I would flee into the arms of men.
I trusted my parental figures to show me the whole world.
And I sought love blindly.
I idealised the first man who smiled at me.
I remember how my mother victimised my father.
She never found freedom in her self-exile.
Instead of harming herself she objectified others.
Silence became a sickness in my spine.
Bashing her, bashing my sex, in my mind, liberation.
I became complicit in my own demise.
Siding with the man I chose. And my world fell apart.
I couldn’t trust either of my parents.
Who did they portray?
And who am I?
I would never find my way back into womanhood.
I had guilted it into death.
I still had my body, emptied, speechless, chastised.
I dedicated my life to the loathing of men and women.
Nothing would remain.
I set my life on fire with decades ahead of me.
I grew comfortable in my own misery.
I gave life to her and thought I was continuing the vicious circle.
I felt the power that my mother must have had.
And what would I do with it? This girl in my belly, my hands?
I had carried her in my absent body.
I could free myself of all the vices, the poison.
I saw her as a vessel, untarnished, ready to receive like I received.
She was a part of my mother too.
I embraced the scent of revenge.
Helplessness, girlhood, the body a blank page.
And I would gloat over my victory.
Favouring my son and belittling my daughter, becoming the puppeteer myself.
“Woman with a Turquoise Medal” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)