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