She

“It’s grey”

is all I seem to be able to say

The sky and the sea

My eyes

I can’t —

It’s indistinguishable: the ocean

Curves of clouds

Of water

Of perfect hips

And ships

Wrecked women

Screaming at us, in pain

And fear

But men sway to their hurt

“It’s so … beautiful”

They throw themselves

Towards what they cannot feel

Bodies breaking on broken bodies

Arms outstretched to

Eyes twinkling

Not with malice,

but tears

And others, those ones left standing

Are enamoured

Mooring their boats to shore

Poor but not quite poor

Minds brimming with salt and horror

And so, with splashes of wet wet colour

They recreate sorrow

Flourishing

But not as sorrow

And others ock

Flapping mouths agape

“Pretty women”

“Perfect pretty women”

Who cannot speak

 

We walk those halls

The walls are full of mirrors

Eyes downcast

Or staring straight

My own face carved on to the bust of Medusa

Unapologetic

Flesh bared

But still apologising

 

Veritas

“Truth” they seem to say

“We are truth”

Or at least those are the words etched into their skin

By the gaze of the hungry

 

A sculpture lies in pieces on the floor

Too much mess

But at least she didn’t cry out

When he fucked her

 

When he pushed her onto her knees, breaking calves of stone like bone

And force feeding her himself

She choked on him, stone spitting out stone

 

She was cold

But he didn’t care

Because it made him feel alive

 

These are not alive

They never were

These pretty perfect women

Crying out

Without voices

 

I want to cry out

But not out of this

Not out of her

But because of her

Jouir

Because he cannot seem to make me

I want to feel electricity

But I can’t

Not with these women

 

Sore, outstretched

On the floor

My eyes reflecting back

What I have seen

On screens

Pushing into screams

 

I’ve promised myself to never fall in love with a woman

Because

Together

How could we win?

 

And they say “how could they not?”

 

So we oat downstream

Drowning

Covered in owers

Each one of us

 

Our own tragedy, our own sadness

On the very brink

“I do not know, my lord, what I should think”