I would like to come back to you.
Every act of aggression happens
In the macroscopic gestures of hands.
In seconds that determine everything.
Like a flower whose neck had been broken.
And nobody remembers the crime,
The separation from life, the sickle lips.
I look at your old face when it was young
And it takes me where I can’t recover.
Where I don’t want to go.
Where you have been destroyed by language.
The bloodlust in eyes that never made sense and
Erupted out of nowhere.
And you swept your whole body under the carpet
And hoped for a grave that would make you feel safe.
“Weiblicher Halbakt” by Vlaho Bukovac (1855-1922)