The Killing of the Unexpressed

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.


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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s