” We exchanged blind words,
and I did not cry,
and I did not beg,
blackness lunged in my heart,
and something that had been good,
a sort of kindly oxygen,
turned into a gas oven.
Do you like me?
What’s a question like that?
What’s a silence like that?
And what am I hanging around for,
riddled with what his silence said? ” *
But it´s an eternal hunger. A craving actually. For presence. Just presence. Your loving presence. Your loving hand holding mine. Your loving hug.
Funny how can I disappear if I´m still here? And I will be here. I don´t know how long but I am. Even though I´m lacking so much of myself, I´m not making apperances. I remain silently and quiet. Waiting.
Like in a death row. I imagine myself a woman sentenced to hanging, going to the scaffold and watching the shiny blade.
* poema de Anne Sexton cujo título é o mesmo da postagem.