My immovable feet felt your steps towards
My closed door, my stomach warned me that
You were getting closer. And I failed to grow
Comfortable waiting. Acidic images down my
Throat, your guiding cold hands, around my
Pulsating fibres, rummaging beneath my skin.
I felt too tall, too aged, too feminine in my
Pyjamas. Nudity was an inevaporable thing.
A canvas, sign language, yours, secrecy, tyranny.
When you died, I still smelled your traces on me.
The sharp whispers in your voice mumbling
Against the substance of mine, the body holding still.
Until you feel satisfied and your life makes sense
For an unholy instant. I knew you were lying,
But I couldn’t find the truth in your actions,
What your words meant, the fingernail, on my lips
And yours. The guillotine without the spectacle,
The overt announcement, no, you tiptoed and barely
Made a sound, my brain a firework, ashes on your hands.
Your body had framed mine and I thought
That I will never outgrow your physicality,
The way it imprisoned mine, trying to override
Memories. You rid yourself of them by shoving
Them down my throat, into the apertures of a child,
The blindly following heart, unable to sleep at night.
“Interior with Young Woman from Behind” by Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916)
Croque-Melpomene 