You buried yourself alive in your own body.
What can come of it?
Your voice is an instrument of violence.
Guttural, abysmal, always on the upward, outward move.
An impenetrable sound, enamoured of its power.
When fire and water meet several outcomes are possible.
Am I boiling or are you being quenched?
I revolt against the notion that we belong together,
That we complete one another. You destroy what you
Create and I recreate what you destroy. You try to
Evaporate me, dissolving into hot air that has no history.
Contain me until I lose all form. The gesture of dissolution.
A service you provide. I think of myself as fluent and overbearing when you
Force me to die because I’ll gallop over you like a tide that can never be unseen.
“Portrait of Mrs. Pataki” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)