Bruchteil | poetry

there were no words in the morning

and in the absence of words there was swallowing

I swallowed everything

you, who wrote letters after letters, releasing yourself

took, not just my hands, but my language as well

you knew of their value

there were only lies at night

lies that were whispered

anything but light

your voice reduced to its tenebrous desires

carries warfare into my skin

there will be silence where my voice should be

that’s what I learn at your breakfast table

that my world destroyed means your buttered bread

your brewed coffee, your routine and my first day at school

this silence is too old, too inherited

nobody notices how misplaced it is

how this house buries its inhabitants

how it cradles a burnt-down world

how good it looks from the outside

how everything blossoms in the garden

how old I grow

in the sheets of a violent man

My own drawing © Laura Gentile 2023 | Instagram: croque_melpomene

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