Beauty lives in broken things:
The vixen’s sorrow for her prey, hung grotesquely from her mouth by its snapped neck. She was born with silver claws and blades for teeth, and nature made her hungry. Yet she mourns – mourns the sweetness of the blood on her tongue.
Else, the love of the sea for the shore – locked for a moment in passionate embrace, till it’s ripped from the sands. In desperation, it eats away at a futile love, muddying itself with each drawn grain in reluctant goodbye. With each return, the sea and the shore become more unrecognisable.
People, who hold none of the vixen’s grace yet all the melancholy; who are all colours of the ocean, yet can’t help but drown.
They reach with shaky hands for loose pages and emerge from their darkness with ink-smudged fingers. They press them to well-plucked strings until their hands bleed, and find themselves, the broken beat of their hearts, in their broken tunes.
They lose themselves in a sea of made-up truths, escape into a landscape of words. They fly out into the wild and run and run until the wind blurs their jagged edges, until their knees bruise and the scent of the dead, decaying earth cleanses them.
And I am not like these people. The wind flees and takes with it all sound, all colour, all feeling. I cut my skin on the barbs tangled between forest and civility. I offer my bleeding hands to blank sheets, and no words appear.
Instead, there is blood on the page and ink in my heart.
DoubleSpeak 