I breathe in the depressed segments of your catacombs,
The fine lazy wrinkles I remember, the magnified skull
That I caressed. I confine myself, render my body contagious,
Beloved and nourished. Is it folly to stand so close to you, ever-
Altered, stretching, taking up the space around you? We are done
Pleasing one another. We have accomplished all endings, mastered them,
In fact, with twitching eyelids and vacant sleeplessness, begging for
Materials to undo what we deem constructed, you and me, in a nutshell.
Yes, I buried you alive, you were still talking to me, but you
Flooded my body with your words, intentions and harmful
Images, it was quite enough. Every mirror that I held up to your face
You smashed and you became ugly to me, unwilling to look at yourself,
Everything you had done and never regretted, never felt responsible for.
And you summoned me to embody your desires, and I said no, no more,
Your true face would show, your rough-edged violence, the man you are,
Beneath the layers of smooth skin and sweet talk, your rotten disasters.
I abandon you in a crypt of my own design, a story foretold by none
Other than myself, your traces won’t be everlasting, I’m not devoted
To hymns of war. I silenced and erased your body, your transformative
Cruel face. The muscle memory serving me, waking me up, telling me that
I’m here and nobody else can penetrate the system. You adorned me with your
Spears and arrows and fake golden crowns and I never felt more deceased.
I carved you out of my body, my scent, my memory, I smoked you out like a plague,
And came to my senses that you starved and I learned how to nurture and re-establish.
“Teresa Mestre i Climent” by Ramon Casas i Carbó (1866-1932)
