My arms wallowed in the paint, the strange colours and odours,
You laid out for me. I tainted myself, sullied, what was mine in your
Matter, detached from the stage of my own choices. I became a drawing
Unknown. Glamourised shades, accomodating you, the fall of me, the resignation
Of my voice that I always deemed to be mine, benign, never to surrender. And you
Solidify me in this toxic colourful claustrophobia, pretending that trauma is expendable,
That sprays can over up anything, devour my solitude in your macabre arms, your
Absent breath on my skin, the narrow lips on my forehead, bursting, screaming, hungry,
As I look into you and what you’re made of. You feel like dead wood that has never come
Across water, earth, fire and sunlight, the air within me, corrupted, trying to perturb
All my mute songs.
“Felia Litvinne” by Alexei Harlamov (1840-1925)
