I’m looking at an empty picture frame
they say I should see me
unoccupied space in which I should be found
they say that I look pretty
pretty is a dagger
sharp and pointed towards my heart
carving pink inscriptions on flesh I can no longer recognise
drawing blood from cold and foreign veins
I look into the empty space,
feel my face repeat the training-
smile, stay quiet, be polite
but etiquette and elegance are far outside this frame
this frame, gilded with golden expectations
I see a man in a suit and tie
with slightly crooked teeth and slicked back hair
his eyes the deep blue colour of disapproval
a sapphire I have seen only in the crying eyes of my mother
mourning the life she planned for me
I take my pretty
scratch out the name engraved upon the plate
scorching tears roll down my cheeks
the dripping wax of a candle whose flame is nearing the end of its wick
and in the hardened drops I see a silhouette
upon unoccupied space, the brown backing board of my empty picture frame
I take the knife and trace the silhouette
no longer pretty, the blade is god
and in the genesis of a design I’ve dreamt before
I see myself for the first time
