AND MY LIFE IS STUCK IN MY BODY , WHICH THEY WILL STICK IN THE EARTH.
“ A PRISONER THEN, - in your graveyard you call a body. how strange it is to hear you say that, widowmaker. OH , BUT THAT ISN’T YOUR NAME - that’s the name they gave you. your oppressors. ” the eyes open & she sees only herself, only the woman she was, and it is both startling and comical, the corners of her lips raise, expose the slightest trace of an ivory tooth. elektra still tastes the soil in her mouth, the blood in her lungs - and hears her own gasping as she is ripped from the tomb / as once she was ripped from mother’s womb . to be a prisoner to your cadaverous remains, the way cold hands grip your bones & usher their demands as if they are but merciful gods, & this new existence ; a blessing.
how funny, how it makes her ribs split. you are a prisoner to yourself, to them, the sooner you unbind yourself, the sooner you become the rabid dog ; the braying , starving hound who bites the hand that seeks to feed. gorges you on abuse, on tragedy. . . the sooner the better. i perhaps , in my recognition , will offer you the taste of mercy.
“ i see you are not content with how things are. ” she narrows their distance - and wonders if this is the first time closeness has not brought the woman pain. “ madame lacroix , madame guillard , those were the names stolen from you, yes ? those lives, stolen. torn apart without a second thought. ISN’T IT ABOUT TIME YOU RETURNED THE FAVOR ? ”
/ @aimrot.
