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by Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink. Posted in Text

To have broken

someone like you –

grabbing, and pulling,

and crushing slowly

every each of your bones,

but then again lushly

loosening the grasp around you,

you and your throat.

Having used words

like heavy tools

to disassembly

the cold and metal

statue of you.

Having operated with them

like a surgeon,

scalpels swaying around –

so patiently –

cutting and shaving and stabbing,

and blowing the air right out of you –

literally

and catching your last breath

by verbally squeezing your neck.

A triumph –

you, my trophy,

in the face of a defeat,

my verbatim victory –

indeed.