They gather like flies under the trembling light,
fluster by the pain that emanates from
your wounds.

Yet place them beside me—
how they wither in putrefaction,
falling onto their backs,
stacked on the floor.

Like myiasis upon you,
they whisper and feed,
drawn to whatever is dying.

None rival my presence—
and still,
you choose them.

Not me.

I only wanted a small reaction,
a nod,
some proof that you had seen me
standing there.

Once again,
you chose to keep me untouchable.

My words fumble
into the buzzing of your swarm,
lost beneath the sound
of wings feeding on your misery.

You scavenge among them,
so ugly,
your eyes blindfolded
by larvae of despair.

I was willing to help,
even though I was not yours.

I wanted to stay—
and not merely orbit your pain.

But like everything men covet
and cannot claim,
you have chosen
to unmake me—
grotesquely—
like a fly.

Photo Francesca Woodman, Untitled, Rome, Italy, ca. 1977-1978.