139 292
139
the foreign daughter
concealing. Hey, look, this is
what I have, what I am, what
I’d like to be, what frightens
me, what makes me happy,
what makes me cry, what I
long for, what I desire. It’s all
in here, as you see it. And he,
who wanted me, didn’t want
me like that, so insufferably
intense, and I sealed my skin
back in place, as if nothing
had happened. All I retain
from that is a different image
of my body: apart from the
line scarred down the centre,
I always saw myself now with
a deep gash across the middle
of my head. I sometimes
touch it in case I find it soaked
in thick blood. Obviously A.
never knew anything about
any of that, and the last time
we met we said goodbye as
we always did, after spending
hours talking about the
poetry of the troubadours.
A. and I are experts on love,
on the theoretical sort, of
course. That’s to say, I’m the
theoretical one, he has his
own life elsewhere, a happy,
well organised life we never
mention.
When I wanted to hurt myself,
I’d summon these thoughts. It
wasn’t to feel self-pity, but to
bring out the pain that served
to punish me for everything I
had done and not done.
I would stand very still in front
of the mirror and think about
all that to justify my passivity
in respect of everything
happening around me, how
I listened to what was being
decided on my behalf and
reacted as if they were talking
about someone else. You’ll
never be the courageous kind,
I’d tell myself shut up like that
in the bathroom, because
he didn’t want you, and the
mirror reflected the face of a
starving stranger, with gaunt
cheek-bones and darker lips.