Standing at the Rijksmuseum
we find ourselves part of a lesson,
a lesson by a master in his craft.
Our company seven men
some look at us some look away
while Dr. Tulp, our eighth man
digs into the elefant in the room.

The cool body lies bare
like light were coming out of it
reflecting on the faces of the more curious,
leaving in shadows the uninterested ones.
The dead arm opened wide,
some lesson on tendons or bones.
Three hundred and fifty years
mute the master's words so clear
make the master's brushes so loud.

It was a time of studied ignorance,
of white collars on shallow knowledge
when my favourite of the Old Masters was born.

Retract.
Step back into our reality
observe the beatiful museum
for we are before one of its finest pieces.
But it's hard.
It ***** you in.
Something about the crepuscular glow of the body
makes you get stuck in it.

Observe the perfect composition,
the diverse faces.
It's like a photograph taken at a random instant
yet so deliberate,
so randomly deliberate,
so deliberatly random.
But step back,
look at the whole thing,
it's just
so
beautiful.
You could say it's just 3D
masterfully represented in 2D
but it is not,
there's something more to it.
Something you could call extradimensional.
It's like if the artist knew the algorithms our mind follows
and knew the exact input needed for the desired output,
beauty,
art,
even shock.

Let's move on to the next painting,
but don't let this image fade away,
let it rest,
let it click,
and let it grow
in you.

The casing we cling onto so greatly
reassures us that indeed we do exist,
for our impalpable spirit
at times, appears merely a dream.

Our eyes in which we look so deep
as if attempting to grasp the within,
shining bliss or saddenedly opaque
dilate at every fascinating detection,

our hair of many colours, curly or straight
a frame to our visage round or oval
we recognise as ours, reflected on
crafted sea sand for us not to forget,

who we are, focusing on its features
one by one, wrinkles portraying
our escapades scrutinised in search
of traces of happiness amid the many scars,

as a central protuberance inhaling
detects scents of others
registered to elicit memories, red lips
our mouth uttering sounds we call words

through vibrating vocal chords stored
in our throat, our neck tirelessly supporting
the head, on our shoulders bearing
the knots revealing our frustrations

insanity, while arms are still willing
and able to carry out intentions,
five fingered hands at their extremities
to mould ideas give them space

in the physical realm, our torso
encaging to protect muscles
pumping life where distinction
is made between woman and man,

for she in clothing hides her *******
of nourishment for progeny to grow,
our stomach flat or bloated conceals
a second mind, enteric nervous system

responding to emotions, our pelvic
cavity beneath, where reproductive organs
give, pleasure to the living
engendering new lives, our thighs,

knees and calves supporting
our every motion so that we
could wander the land discover
understand, our feet

rooted to the ground for balance,
for us not to loose touch
with reality fly away
in realms of fantasy, our skin

delicate involucre of it all, shelling
our skeleton keeping us *****, protecting
trillions of cells
unfathomably combining to compose,

us.

Waking up into the world
Foul words burn holes in my ears
Truths so raw they rot my young flesh
The instant they leave your lips
Kisses of death and decay
A power play that never ends
My personal hells undying fire
Pulverizing my mortal soul
Crazed thoughts meander in my head
I make my own meals
Milk and crunchy glass shards
Topped with freshly ground chillies
What a tantalizing trinity
The perfect homemade breakfast
To accompany our charming little pad
Savour our eclectic interior
Forget the artfully bloodied rooms
Someone's stiffened liver in our dining
Torn muscles stashed in a corner
A punctured heart in the kitchen sink
Some ground up bones in pepper shakers
Fractured ribs on my study desk
The brain sitting on the couch
Our latest wallpaper from centuries ago
News of our deaths on the headlines
Your acidic kindness
A raptured spleen in your bed
I belief that belongs to me
I'd give anything for your brutal love

If I pretend that you aren’t here
                                 long enough



                                                 Maybe I’ll be numb


                                        Maybe the thumping of my pulse
                                                         Of my veins

                                                          ­       Right by
                                                                my bones,

                                                     Would disappear with you

                                                Maybe then
                                                         Maybe then
                                                            ­     Maybe then

                   Maybe then I could live without you

You were slightly delusional from handfuls of sleeping pills with
high amounts of diphenhydramine which led to hallucinations.
I tried to reason with you but when you punched the wall,
I felt my entire body contract out of empathy and
my fight-or-flight kicked in and for once,
I chose flight.

Your phone number popped up on my screen,
I answered, ready to tell you that I’d never come back
to this complex to give you another chance,
and you threatened my worst fear.

I panicked at first, then matched your threat with my own,
but mine was calling first responders to take you themselves
so I forced you into my car and you screamed until the vocal folds
across your larynx couldn’t produce anymore curse words.

You stared at the bleached tiles and refused to talk to the nurse in triage;
I muttered key phrases to get you admitted
intermittently between sobs that caught the waiting room’s attention,
especially when I whispered “ex-girlfriend”.

Protocol called for an observation period and the sitter
in charge of watching you for the moment looked up
from her chart occasionally, slyly listening to you
harshly hissing that you didn’t want me there anymore.
I flinched towards the curtains and I slinked along the walls
until I was able to walk out the door and leave you behind.

When I talked to the nurse privately, he ensured you would be evaluated,
that I did the right thing by taking you in, that I might have saved your life.
He promised that we were both safe now.

Except, I am not safe.

It has been two weeks since I left through those sliding hospital doors.
I am terrified that every motorcycle I hear on the road
could be you tracking me down or I will see you every time
I walk out of the class on the same campus as yours or
that I will never be able to open up the walls you made me build
around my secrets that you used as ammunition against me
to validify your anger in arguments that you started.

I imagined a life for us so different from this and now,
I’m not even safe in my own thoughts because
they’ve already betrayed me so much.

My voice shrank and my entire body sclerosed to stone
when you lifted a hand because I was never sure
if this time would be the time
you took it too far.

The air left my alveoli, travelled through my bronchioles, trachea,
and out through my clenched teeth as you walked out the door,
safe to escape from my lungs because fear
had paralyzed my diaphragm and
overstimulated my amygdala.

It was always a vicious cycle:
My limbic system remembered the monster that escaped your ribcage
when the rage inside that was instilled in you to win wars
that was never fully extinguished came through
yet the same system processed the love I felt
when you played peek-a-boo with my niece on the grass;
even my brain wasn’t sure what we wanted.

Four weeks had passed since:
I said goodbye to our cat because he was yours now,
I took the trinkets I had scattered to make it our home
rather than your place where I stayed,
I erased sloppy alcohol-kissed love notes from the whiteboard
where I wrote the therapy reminders you ignored.

My mailbox filled with emails riddled with depression and  
post-traumatic stress and worry manifested as a knot in my throat
that made it impossible to breathe so I searched for any spare key
and drove the twenty-seven miles to ensure your safety.  

I grasped the doorknob hard enough to trigger Pacinian corpuscles
throughout my skin, terrified of what was just beyond the threshold.