I’ve painted a dead face on paper
the face that comes to me at night
arresting sleep, arresting peace
the bones that crack at a sister’s lips
the bruises that will always keep their colour
the dried blood that will never heal
I remember the face beneath the conclusion wounds
the face I’ve seen in fights
the face I’ve seen hurt
the face that made me laugh
I drain the life out of that dead face
it is the absence of life that haunts me
the letting go
the lack of choice
it’s too late, it’s done
that face takes itself to bed with me
and I need to acknowledge it
this is a fact
this is the truth
and I’m still breathing
even if it hurts
and life comes back
his into mine
the face finds peace every night
and I hold it there
the horror
and accept it
because it was a choice
a choice by someone I love
a choice one can only make in a microcosm
in deepest intimacy with oneself and something higher
something within, at the heart of everything,
that belongs solely to oneself
and nobody will ever know
until it blasts out into the invisible world
in a million particles of gold
Croque-Melpomene 