/lit/ - Literature

I could perfectly say in which occasions I'm her or not. Her behaviours and ideals
are invented by me because there was no other way to find them out. In fact,
I feared a crushing disappointment, that was already ushering, which I, with a
fast and uncoscious freudian repression, deleted. There is nothing poetic or
dreamy to talk about and if at first I felt a bittersweet taste on the back of my
tongue to pronunce her name and her dispersed status, now just seeing the
only picture I took of her makes my face swell like an allergy. Perhaps it's
a physiological response to the fact that I desired her features on my approssimative
face, and look into the mirror and see her, and her apparently surgical way to look
at things, which hides a herbivore's fear to the things themselves. Doing my duty
has become my labour of love for her, to feel the pain in my legs, the fatigue, an
unhealty loneliness that clings like meningitis and recalls the side effects of
paracetamol. She can see me everywhere, even when I wasn't her, when I
allowed myself to wallow in my old bones and lay an eye on something she
would find disgusting, screaming like a banshee, listen to music maybe.
But she was there, in my head, like a petite virgin Mary that looks at
you and asking what are you going to do with nails, a hammer and her son,
then starts crying like a cat in a lot.
I don't even remember her voice , and I don't want to hear it anymore, she rised
and became a concept, as a poor girl-saint and her osteomyelitis , that makes
the violets bloom on the peeled walls interposed between my ribs and sternum.