It’s tough to cut through the skin
You enveloped me with. It carries
Your scent and heavy conscience,
Unbearable. I walk toward the unknown
And feel you pressed against my spine.
Your dark breath in my impenetrable hair.
And you want me to sing your song.
You want to hear my voice against yours.
Your forehead hammering against my skull.
The fatal taste of your vocal cords, I try not to
Forget the things they said, remember your
Cruelty. And I cough because I can’t breathe,
Thinking of you.
The air running through my body
Was too loud a sound for you, too alive,
Too alike. You used to stare at all the pillows.
I needed blankets. I think of her in your
Condemned discarded universe, the mouldy
Drawers of your heart.
How could you touch and hold
My tiny hands after what they
Were forced to do? How could you
Pressure me to stop crying?
You put a fishnet of lies around me
In winter and preached that I was warm.
I look at your mouth and eradicate its sounds.
You stomp around my body.
Always wanting me out and away
From you. You saw that I had been cut
And bruised and you thought now we’re
Even. You wanted me to see and experience
The world through your eyes. You never
Gave me the chance to actually sin.
“Sleeping Bacchante” by Gérard de Lairesse (1641-1711)