I’ve watched your nails grow, observed the defiance of form,
The fulfilment of purpose, a tongue-tied determination. My
Breath glided over the arch of your back and I remembered the
Lullaby that put me to sleep. I’d wake up in the middle of the night
Crying. I acknowledged, in your face, my estranged despair. I thought
I’d killed it with my own two hands, as I was loving you, your body,
Accelerating in our own cacophony, obliterating the crusades against us.
And I began to rip open old wounds and lick away my own
Invisibility that someone called femininity. Tobacco-stained tongues
Would whistle at what I refuse to give, showcase and lay bare, my
Heart in a bottomless barrel, a dissection plate, unfocused and sterile.
A love-drained platter of familiarities erodes the life I’ve created and I
Land on your periphery, colour-blind and pale. The crucifixion of your
Crotch, devils holding hands, a voyage through shattering isolation.
Your white noise in my ear, I can’t let you go, a wake-up call,
A torture instrument behind my back, the clouds in my gut
Trying to tear me asunder, blacken the world’s intestines in
Front of my eyes and I dissolve into the backseat of my joy,
The white fabric that scares me the most, awaiting to be blemished,
Within, without, I’d rather jump than collide, your words attached to me.
“Woman combing her hair” by Felix Schurig (1852-1907)
