Sorcière

Ces généralités qui sonnent parfaitement ou vous couvrent de ridicule selon les situations, qu'est-ce qui les rend différentes de celles qui s'avèrent toujours justes après des siècles? Leur longévité nous les rend précieuses, on croit comprendre qu'il s'y cristallise quelque chose de notre condition. Se leurre-t-on? Réfugiez-moi dans les interstices, les atomes passerelles que le regard omet parce qu'il les tient pour évidents et où se cachent les plus terribles "pourquoi?". Je me tiendrai là comme une aspérité douce et j'échapperai à notre sort commun de prestidigitateurs de pacotille.

ombres

En la plupart des filles et des femmes, quelque soit le degré d'assurance dont elles paraissent faire preuve, on décèle au fond ou les nimbant comme un voile une sorte d'entité frêle et vacillante en quête de validation masculine. C'est elle qui les rend promptes à l'idolâtrie, les laissent prêtes, aussi, à être anéanties par une marque de rejet, un aveu de désamour. Sans doute y-a-t'il quelques femmes qui y échappent, s'en affranchissent vraiment, idéal lesbien des sixties, et leur beauté de femelle libre est je crois toute autre que celle que l'on a pris l'habitude d'idéaliser.

Pour toutes les autres, enfoncée comme une épine gorgée de poison dans le coeur, il y a la griffe crochue du désir patriarcal, il y a entravant leurs magnifiques corps d'êtres humains ces chaînes invisibles, ce bondage qui nous les rendent a la fois sublimes et veules. Excitantes et méprisables. Putes et saintes. Mères et chiennes. 
Accrocs à un système de valorisation qui en dépit de toutes les dénégations - empreintes de détresse -, nous asservit surtout. Pourvu qu'il reste au coin de l'oeil. Pourvu qu'on ne le regarde pas trop en face... Pourvu... que.... Qui...? Chhh...

Parlons de nos féminités.
Parlons mascara, jupes, courbes, vernis.
Parlons main-mise sur nos humanités.

Avec l'âge on s'ampute on s'élague on se polit on gagne en maturité.

Full circle

How can you be surprised of anything in a world where nothing really makes sense?

Children grow up in a world where they expect things to make sense, to be meaningful. Where they expect their parents to know what the hell is going on and that's the lie parents feed their children to obtain obediance.

Authority = I know better. I know.

The horror of the realisation of the ignorance of the parents pervades them very slowly as they grow up, triggering terrible fear.

Do we ever recover?

Authority is power and power can alleviate those fears.

Children become parents.

L'impossibilité d'une île

Drowning slowly, almost languidly, in a dark green ocean,
surrounded by other swimmers with more skills and stronger
None of them can tell, none of them care
And I am one of them as well as alone and sinking
out of breath and wit
endlessly confused,
incurably disappointed in a world
that is 71% water.

Nihil

I've got a skull full of what-fors and their echoes
Although the space in there feels gigantic
The bones marking it off are like an extra-thick wall, a blockhouse, a bottomless pit
Screams go unheard in here
Craving hands fail to be ghostly enough to reach through the granit
Inner suffering only resonate with outer suffering and
immediately crawls away from it shrinking on itself like a worm
Wears instead indifference as a sophisticate armor a tool of disconnection
That'll desensitize one from the soft touch of lovers
And in one's hair close to one's ear tender murmurs and pleas

Only to be met with similar frames of mind
Within other skulls soon to be bare

Ode alors

We’re always on the verge of tears and yearning for an excuse to cry, for someone to finally press one of our triggers.

For there is an irreconcilable division inside of us, taking not the shape of a single trait separating our core into two distinct parts, but that of a tiny fissure in each of our particles; oh, none of them was left whole, not a single one, and we are torn apart endlessly.

Sinking deeper and deeper while reaching for the stars. Exploding in every directions and withdrawing into a black hole.We are the sum of our attempts at compromises.

And I am so many little scrambles and sometimes I am no one at all, the sad failure of a self, the resulting emptiness of a continued lack of consistency.

But you, my friend, built from the same hazard, you’re a beautiful soul feeding on wonders. And I’m a mere attempt of an answer to your quest for something that was already within you all along.

You’re a star and I’m a mere satellite and I’m contented orbiting around you – in giving me a sense of top and bottom, of left and right, you gifted me with a purpose.

Should you vanish, my beautiful friend, I would be left shivering in the dark, a wandering pebble, an unsightly little thing, instead of the beautiful Moon you made me.

There's almost always a strange feeling enclosed in my rib cage striving to break free, a something I cannot tell, an explosion endlessly contained that I carry with me forever like a beloved millstone.
I lose myself whenever it goes amiss.
Or whenever I lose myself its pressure behind my curved bones vanishes
and my teeth turn into fangs and my fingernails into the claws of a cornered animal.

Instructions for a romantic relationship

If you wish to lean on me, lean lightly, for I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet. If you want me to embrace you and soothe your fears, be prepared still to be on your own, for my weird little soul is but a frail protection against your monsters. Accept my love very carefully and give me your heart little by little to lessen risks of transplant rejection.
Passion is for the strong; as for ourselves, let's commit warily to each other and love in hushed whispers.

Coming to terms.

Years passes and old age,
though I’ve heard all the tales
and seen with my own eyes many who suffer from it
still comes as a surprise, a joke in bad taste
something I cannot quite believe is slowly happening to me
snuffing my hopes out one by one like candles
as years after years, deeper lines festoon the skin at the corner of my eyes
a disease that spread mercilessly whether my dreams ever came true or not
while my body and flames that once burnt strong and bright waste away slowly,
for sometimes nothing can fool that which is the greatest truth
anyone’s ultimate solitude
and slowly aggravating state of putrefaction.

Auguri

Commencer l’année lasse
attacher à l’idée de continuer à vivre un intérêt relatif
sourire et rire et soupirer et les yeux clore
tendre les mains un peu et se brûler
les renfouir en son corps
et se cacher des amis des amants et de l’aigreur
échouer partiellement
froncer les sourcils, contracter ses canaux lacrymaux
s’hanter de questions tord-boyaux
vagir sans bruit vomir de l’air
errer, s’échouer, éteindre,
dormir, dormir, dormir, dormir,
dormir, dormir, dormir, dormir
dormir… mais d’un seul œil
souhaiter ardemment
l’ivresse qui fait taire le cœur
qu’il suppure dignement
qu’il se racornisse sans un bruit
Maudire sa faiblesse, haïr ses (t)erreurs
et veule se laisser bercer
par le chant des sirènes.

Not done yet

They loved me because I was a miracle, the product of their coitus, the synthesis of her egg and his sperm and as such I was amazing. They loved me also because at first, I grew up to be a nice little blond, vanilla, sugar and spices – and the other children didn’t like me because I was shy, dull and eager to please the adults and for those same reasons they loved me. They loved me as their daughter, but beneath that status laid a monster in the making, a someone they hadn’t meant to create. And that someone that started showing more and more as years passed, they did all they could to make it feel how unwanted it was (by ignoring it or screaming at it or beating it) and I could see the hate that glowered in my father’s eyes when he was about to strike me but the monster in the making wouldn’t, couldn’t go back to inexistence. It awoke such terror and despair and such rage breathing wasn’t easy anymore so I shouted back at him I didn’t say “stop it, stop screaming” like I really wanted to “this hurts stop it, make it better” I just fought back I tried to find words that would hurt him as much as his words and acts hurt me and would inevitably, painfully loose to him and my family and the family’s friends kept asking me: why? why would you do that? why won’t you keep quiet and let the storm passes? And I didn’t know what to answer. I was just a little person and nobody taught me self-esteem, so I didn’t know how to justify myself but the truth is that to my ears their questions translated to “why don’t you let it all die, all that’s raging in you, why don’t you kill it? if you hate your father’s behavior so much don’t provoke him and just kill it, kill it before he does?” God knows I try. Without even knowing what I was doing I tried with all my might but when I sometimes reached that empty, blank place, where everything was quiet and my emotions so deeply asleep it felt like death, the truth is it didn’t feel better at all. Successing at making a huge vacant space out of myself wasn’t a relief at all. And my parents were still dissatisfied with me. They loathe my passivity but it was and would always be my primary defense mechanism.

Now we’re on good terms again and sometimes we become somewhat close with my father and I can’t stop feeling a little giddy at that healthy closeness I had yearned for for so long. But then he acts in ways that remind me how it felt back then and I realize this is not a safe place to be, that dangerous connivance that can rot so quickly. I’ll never really hug them again; I’ll never completely forgive them. I used to be so utterly lonely and that lonely “I” was disassembled and crushed and that’s how I grew up for years, lonely, lost, in pieces, kicking in the void and with no notion of self-esteem, a never-ending Hell and all the raging that was born at that time won’t ever completely leave.

I’m so fucking angry and that anger stitched me up over the year, gave me coherence, and something within me is still slightly infectious; it keeps discreetly bleeding somewhere, that volcano isn’t sleeping and tonight I’m so close to eruption, lava on my tong, running through my lips, seeping, cities about to burn in a hushed-up, a beautiful silence. 

They should have known better. They should have fucking known better than to fuck-up like they did with a teenager’s head, a person in the making. 

“Why don’t you want to have children?” 

Here’s why.