I embalmed your paper with the scent of my lips. A never-ending

Grotto without light or heat. I, there, become sedentary. Disillusioned

And fragile, ready to fall apart, not tremor, confronting the portrayal

Of my demise. The colours are mine, the absence thereof. I saturate

My own shrine, one of love and dedication. You wipe the walls around my

Body, disengaged, fracturing them, my memory, distilling what is left of me.

And I read you, simmering, my mind stumbles after your neglect and my

Gut screams: “Shred him to pieces!”. You took my lock, a statistic, and

Hammered it into one of my walls, forgetting my name, and I blush because

Of my rage. I wish my shoe had a heel to crack your head open, disfiguring

My texture. I am the curator of me, not you, with your crystallising dusty hands.

Mikhail-Vrubel-Icon3-(fragment)

“The Blessed Virgin Mary With Child (Fragment)” by Mikhail Vrubel (1856-1910)

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