I climbed into your holes, light did not exist yet.
And it never would, in the world you lived in.
I tried to carve you out, transform you, idealise you.
Resistant to my touch, the deformation of your inner life.
You could never do right by me. We would stab one another.
You said that nothing makes you feel more alive than jealousy.
Resentment. We all congratulate with daggers in our hands.
I would become a child again, go back to all of the days we spent
Together. The days of my self-erasure to please you, not the world,
Ever-failing, ever-falling, into despair and little muted deaths.
The emotions standing in-between us, intertwining, would never cease
To be raw and undone, despite my brooding, my setting everything on
Fire, one word out of you and it all comes back, regression, doubt, loss.
Every time one of us reaches out her hand, murder gallops in the air.
“Portrait of Emma and Federica Bankes” by Henry Tanworth Wells (1828-1903)
Croque-Melpomene 