She drained herself.
Staring into the hole
That absorbed her.
She was giving birth to
Death. To the prison
Within her; she released both.
She had grown tired of herself.
Of hearing her own voice.
She caught herself in self-betrayal.
Her feelings travelled to her mind
And everything would become fact.
If nothing happened, what does sadness mean?
She would never stop contemplating.
Comparing herself to absent people.
Setting standards and demeaning herself.
Always stuck and trying to break free.
She had lost orientation. A candle lit in a pit.
And she would talk about her sorrow, but
Could never put her finger on it.
Maybe she felt invisible.
Maybe even to herself. The most, perhaps.
Taken for granted.
They wouldn’t listen to her.
And she lost her attention span.
Concentrating on the devil’s details,
Not the whole picture.
She walked away.
Wandered around in her mind.
Knocked on all doors like a beggar,
A detective. She harmed herself
Without a single gesture.
Sometimes she wouldn’t say a word
So that there wouldn’t be a sign of her on earth.
She was looking for something.
It was too abstract, too unknown to tell.
The awareness of it would drive her insane.
Everything started to irritate her and she got caught.
She knew she was out of control.
She was the painting itself and had no distance.
“La schiava turca” by Parmigianino (1503-1540)
Croque-Melpomene 