She hurt other women.
Other women hurt her.
She was convinced that he liked her.
And vice versa.
That’s why she played that role he
Reused for her. She thought that that’s
All there is to her.
It feels like fire the way you see us,
The way you burn us one bit at a time,
One hope at a time. And we are so thick-skinned
We handle it. We suffer the pains of centuries.
And you scream that it is your nature, your desire,
Your incorrigibility, your fucking privilege.
You, the owners of all temptation. You are so blind
And have no idea who we are.
You make us believe in love without knowing
A single little thing of its substance. There is no running
Away from suffering. And you can numb all of your
Godforsaken emotions and pretend you are made of
Strengths exclusively but your shadows will eat you up
Every step of your delusions and cowardice. Don’t play that
Rotten and lost game of your forefathers.
Don’t assume that we have to be thankful for your
Mere presence beside us if it’s just your past-infected shell.
I’d rather have two sisters next to me. You’re always so very
Shocked that we are so angry. You planted that seed.
You couldn’t live for one moment in the shoes we walk in
And that you continuously tried to cripple and corrupt.
If you hate us that much or can’t persist with us then leave us alone.
We’ve given, we’ve given and given and still one is
As exchangeable as the other, in your eyes, in your
Crotch, and on and on, five days here, two weeks with her,
Story to story. You just want it all. Their suffering is a normality
To you. She’s kept it hidden from you throughout centuries,
So why seek it out and confront it? Why not just sugarcoat it?
That’s your speciality, your nasty treatment.
You make us believe and trust something and within
The same breath you abandon everything, in a heartbeat,
Without saying a word, for years and years, but we have never
Ever been blind to the worlds apart you’ve created.
You’ve involved us, in one way or another. And you make us sick
With your carelessness and thoughtlessness. You speak of great
Sacrifices, the pseudo-heroes of history, and we haven’t made any?
You transform our love into hate and we turn it back into freedom
To save us, to survive, to not fall apart in your parameters.
You’ve always enjoyed it all at our cost, leaving us the crumbles.
Nothing will ever fill the gigantic emptiness in your gut.
The story of indiscretions is as old as it is boring. Don’t you dare
To underestimate us and what we bring to the table and forget
That we harbour as much desire and fantasies as you but we
Choose the joys that outweigh the sufferings and fill entire temples
With the ever-growing richness of our inner lives.
“Farrar & Lou Tellegen”, Library of Congress’s Prints and Photographs Division (1916)