The Age of Uproar

I unlearned the silence of listening.

I had listened for too long, to stories

That were intended to demolish my hope,

To infest me with guilt and rob me of my will

To remain. His raging voice never found an end.

All of his words hit me in the face, their intent, their

Assumed power. As I listened, I absorbed him and lost myself.


He wanted to get rid of himself.

He wanted me to deal with it all.

Transfer his mental illness, his eternal

Frustrations with life, his misogyny.

I was a girl. I learned from the worst.

Dismantling myself. Taking him in.

Every single day. His absence became a presence.


And what did you expect me to do with your misery?

How did you expect me to live my life?

As I tried to grow you made me sick.

You made me fall and gave me your hand to get up.

You gave well-meaning words a bad reputation.

You thought that you could subvert the roles

Because I was a child. You thought that I’d never notice.


To listen to you without scepticism meant accepting my defeat.

I considered it dangerous to listen, but then again it opened my eyes.

The face reveals everything, the language, the mouth. I must be cautious.

What came out of him I reflected straight back to him, rejected it.

The second hand image of himself weakened him. I exposed him for what he was.

Sometimes I would talk instead of listening in order to protect myself.

Losing touch with everyone in front of me and I realised the origins of mentalities.


“Il Barbagianni” by Valentine Cameron Prinsep (1838-1904)

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