mouldmouth | throatcut | a poem in shoes that don’t fit

I was born with mould on my limbs

staring at extinguished stars

head in plastic bags


the lips were blue

death was in the room

I lay sexualised

and understood that I was a girl

what I meant to others

they were reproducing representations of their imagination

and my forms would do

transparent sheets over me


this is you

from now on

only this

don’t move

hide the face

hide the stomach

let me see this

and that

my body didn’t have a name yet


they conveyed to me

this is your power

and I made it grow strong


according to other people’s ideas and ideals

but I comprehended

that my self-sufficient power

could be broken in two in a heartbeat

if they wanted it to

never innate, never solitary

but imposed and patronised


I saw in men’s eyes

who they wanted me to be

and it pecked at my soul


I put a man’s mouth on mine

to sound impenetrable and filthy

to increase their comfort

and my fake man’s mouth

attacked my own sex to please and attract

and they’d change their language

change their dispositions like devils in a mirror labyrinth

for a woman with a woman’s mouth

but she’d never be safe

their faces were never real

their throats were full of trash

who were they

and who was I

the only real thing was cutting edge shards called performance

photograph © Laura Gentile 2021 | Instagram: @melpomenepaintings

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