The Imaginary Breakwater

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.

back view of a woman in brown dress
Photo by Thu Ngo on

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