The Finishing Touches

The man in command of the whole stage

Has always remained a stranger to me,

A stranger that comes home with me,

Insults my body, carries out the same gestures

And abhors the unintentional mimicry

Of  my face and hands.


He steals the spotlight with a smiling face

And the crowd doesn’t understand that the

Surface, the loudness thereof, is all they can get

And they are overwhelmed by the superficiality

That knows so well how to pretend and perform

Without true substance.


I am looking for the presence of this staged man

In my life. The traces his words left, or the way

He looked at me, disappointed, self-recognising,

Revolted, seeking destruction without doing much,

By being absent yet present within stories that don’t match

The man or they really did in retrospect.


I was convinced that your presence in my life, next to me,

Was a necessity, a pain so normalised and familiarised

That I needed it to sleep and feel validated. Your absence would

Have been easier to handle. Sometimes, my body mutates

Into your footsteps and I wonder is it you or me?


Your life is a different one in your memory.

I speak to you about the person I’ve known

And you have no idea who I am talking about.

All the crippling edges supposedly erased

Stand tall in my head. You make me stumble back into

That house where you had all the power, your fist

Holding all the strings, cramping in agony, every

Single part of everything staged irreplaceable to the world

You think you lived in.

greyscale photo of masks on a stick
Photo by Francesco Ungaro on



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