The Melody of Pillowcases

I drowned in the shadow of your gestures.

I tried to call it love, but it had always been

A foreign notion that was out of reach and sight.

I stared at you and felt all of the things that I wasn’t.

My voice became louder and the light on you: brighter.


I know what it feels like to be cruel, to be envious,

Self-destructive and so very enamoured and desperately

Alone, the contrary of sedated. I imploded at the resignation

Of touch and delicacy. I transformed myself into a brutal

Force with countless pumping hearts.


I thought that within me I’d find a massive hole,

Everything rejected and obsolete. I believed and

Trusted everything I saw in everybody’s eyes. About me.

Who they thought I was. And I’d oblige as my body

Fell apart without a blink.


This cannot be my girlhood. Crushed by other girls.

This cannot be my coming-of-age, breaking the hearts

Of self-effacing girls and mine, using boys left and right,

And being used downward-faced. Emerge empty-hearted

And severely burned. Will this be my womanhood shunning

My body and all its attachments and sentimentalities, locked

Far away from all the soul-devouring sexes?


I come back to you, the very first time

I felt heartbroken and blind to everything

Radiant beneath my own skin. When I hungered

For elements that I would only find within but

Sought after in the most lost way imaginable.

I had shed my skins so many times, always afraid that

Beneath the ambushed surface I’d find nothing left of myself

And yet I did it anyhow.


“Study Of A Woman For Offering To Love” by William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905)

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