And maybe our bodies were a coincidence.
Maybe we’d never speak the same language
And get stuck in disguise.
Faintheartedly we reach out for each other’s cold hands
Without knowing what warmth really means.
Your face approaches my skin with an open mouth
And you lack words, and I was taught not to resist.
I internalised the expectations of your body.
I named you the plunderer. The ransacker.
Driving around, insatiably stopping to eat women alive.
Out of their clothes. Torn, backstabbing, women on women.
They would have killed one another for your attention.
Identifying themselves with the heartache you caused and distributed
In highs and lows. And yet, they all knew, that you were not worth it.
And yet they thought they needed you,
Inside of them and they faked it still.
You’d never come close to the fantasies in their minds.
But you abandoned their bodies with your poison inside of them all.
The twisted memory, the lie to themselves that something had been good within you.
You were a land of projections and they wanted to play in it.
You never told them that they were wrong about you.
You let them have it, feel it, the gusts of your misogyny disguised as lust,
As appetite, as love, and you fucked and plucked and drained,
All of them into you, you ate them all up, misanthropic underwhelmed gulps.
They kissed you and felt their soul disengage,
Something had never been right, they all stormed into a wrong premise
And leapt blindly into all the steps that you had laid out for them already.
Croque-Melpomene 