waxcobwebmouth | a poem

childhood landscape mud on my knees

church bells, awaiting altar, expectant

in the wings, performance, step by step

choreography, before school, ageless

stripped of age, barefaced, spoonful of acidity

*

she calls me a liar

because she lied to herself

a long time ago

*

she wants nothing to do with the truth

she said her goodbyes

buried it, burned it, shunned it

into non-existence

*

and I look at her

puzzled

amazed

enraged

*

flames in her head

*

and who breaks my bones?

*

I latch myself onto strong people

because I trusted you when you called me weak

and I realised

and realised

that the strong people that I sought out

were as weak as you were

and that I had been strong all along

*

if you managed to make me think

that I had no willpower, no strength,

you could do anything

to me

for me?

*

and I let you roam through my body

I have always lived in a fantasy world

*

and you entered it

placed yourself at the crime scene

without wiping the dirt off your feet

*

I stared at adults

and wondered what went on in their heads

everything they left unsaid

marked their faces

over time

and I love to read

*

what they think about the most

never makes it out of their mouths

“Jo, La Belle Irlandaise” by Gustave Courbet (1819-1877)

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