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
Croque-Melpomene 