Your voice lingers on my skin.
The smokescreen of its melody.
And you come back from the dead.
With your mouth wide open,
Your eyes hallucinatory and victorious.
You speak to me but in a language that
Doesn’t exist and I look at you and the
Drive within you that haunts me still
And it’s blown out of proportion.
You inflict harm whilst apologising.
I never understood that as a child.
The way your hands grabbed what they
Wanted. How your cheeks wounded mine.
How your pants became too tight,
How our thoughts were so incompatible.
You lived in a different reality and I
Contributed to it without knowing it.
My body. My age. My imagination.
The way I kept my mouth shut.
My fists never loosened though.
You put a character in me that made
Me gag. Sweet, pleasing and welcoming.
Everything, your pest weeds around my
Body trying to bury it against yours,
Your scent in my hair, my stomach and hands.
I wrote letters to the dead to get back to or at you.
I never found you again, I thought, but there are many
Like you. And I’d fall into their trap too.
The way they make you undress.
The way their eyes roll.
The tongue exploring every corner.
The violence always close by, ready-made.
About to erode or explode, it all depends on me.
I obeyed. Silently, only realising afterwards
That everything that happened had been detrimental to myself.
Croque-Melpomene 