The woman sat on the toilet seat, her head thrust
Against the flushing button, I heard her sob nevertheless.
She tried so hard to be neither heard, nor seen, every single
Day. Vanishing into the furniture, her own false grins.
Framed by shut windows and guilt underneath the blanket.
The outlines of her face moulded by the sink, the dirt within,
The hands grabbing her, touching her soft flesh, her working
Body, pulled and dragged across his body, her gestures gravitating
Away from his bitter taste, his dry mouth, the desperate temper.
She tried to read her way out of her misery, she had always been
Such a very good girl and she paid for it what she never had.
Generational misery, from one mindset to the next, infected
And infiltrated, the old rotten dogmas, the assumed worthlessness,
The repetitive patterns of unwholesomeness, untruths, always
And always replayed and forcefully enacted, slammed out of the
Children, their genuine nature, their voice and vocation, performed
Through the ages, never questioned, even if they burn our very flesh.
Croque-Melpomene 