There is no room in your coffin for a lived truth, a breeze of
Togetherness, a horizontal defeat. It has been proclaimed, the colourblind
Fetish, the ember that emboldened me, the coal without the strained blanket,
The sabotaging fire. All my loud questions begging at the foot of a tree trunk,
Insane and manipulative. I put my pretentious hands on you, the lack of
Verbosity, awaiting a nerve to respond, the silent skin, shrinking, sinking in,
The infectious nightmare of us, the sarcophagus lusciousness, climbing up my
Gullet, reducing me, the industry of death, my tormented desire to become a daughter,
To you, to reach a voice in terms of love, of reciprocity, of responsibility.
Croque-Melpomene 