There is a specific kind of trauma in the mundane—the shadow of a wooden spatula, the physical memory of gagging, the way a routine check-up curdles into a battlefield. It’s messed up because it’s a betrayal of trust disguised as "for your own good." The doctor doesn’t just break her will; he enjoys the breaking. He notices her beauty, then he destroys her dignity. It’s a predatory gaze masked by a medical license.
How much can one achieve in a little life? a life so small How do you go about the day always getting in your own way? Clinging to skyscrapers tall Your friends are there yet you don't know why they care Jumping from fire escapes you're so used to the fall The bruises, broken bones, bleeding you think they don't see when you've held the shining thing to your torn-up skin a certain kind of dependency You let yourself shiver in spite of the arms that long to cradle you Cry yourself a river until your hollow spaces leave no traces Forlorn jungle eyes gaze at portraits that, despite their beauty, bring you shame soothes and destroys just like your name because you were baptised in the kind of water that doesn't cleanse but drowns What colours do you use to paint a lost cause who's also a patron saint?...
Comments
Post a Comment