The Killing of the Unexpressed

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If we had the chance to look each other in the eyes again,

I would choose silence and observation. I would analyse

The climbing scaffold of my bones, the texture of suffering

And endurance, the language unspoken beneath my skin.

I would listen to the heartbeat that always draws her back in.

Trying to understand the suppression of what has been done.

 

She looks at me as if I were her mirror-image.

And she sees what she doesn’t like in me.

Ejects it. Projects it. The administrator of self-punishment.

And I try to love her desperately, to become compatible.

I ignore the screeching of my own body when she contaminates me

With herself. What I think of as love stems from a different source.

 

I cannot fall into her arms without waking up in a stranglehold.

I shrink everything within me, my tongue, my freedom, my spine.

And she speaks of adoration whilst I crouch within me, beat myself up.

Chemistry spreads in manifold ways, a bond that deviates into antagonism.

Did I conjure her up myself? Was she what I deserved? Every time

She stares into the glass within my eyes I see everything splintered and scarred.

800px-Sir_Joshua_Reynolds_-_The_Ladies_Waldegrave_-_Google_Art_Project

“The Ladies Waldegrave” by Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792)

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