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.

800px-Rippl_Portrait_of_Mlle_Dutile

“Portrait of Mlle Dutile” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)

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