The Inner Flea Market

Sometimes people waste their whole lives in fear of death, convinced that death is the hard and painful part.

I wanted her to be quiet.

But she didn’t care what she sounded like.

People would misinterpret it anyway. Her. Everything about her.

She thought that her pride was everything that she had left.

Or was it her ego that was tearing her apart, in all the wrong directions?


She would stand in the middle of a room and eavesdrop on shallow

Conversations and the urge to scream would erupt, the tears galloping

Out of nowhere. She had doubted herself for years and complained incessantly.

She was convinced that nothing was more unattractive than bitterness and yet

She bathed in its poisonous waves. Something was holding her back and she never

Thought that it was her. The way she was taught that she was useless and didn’t matter.


She would stare at the world and crumble beneath its ugliness,

Despair on her own, detached and empathetic, turning her head

Away from everything that was growing healthily, from love and nurture.

Something within her had always been drawn and derailed to self-destruction.

One wasn’t without the other. She created herself and was an agent,

Whilst orchestrated transfers from without pecked at her.


“A portrait of a young woman in profile with a red hat” by Friedrich August von Kaulbach (1850-1920)

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