Cet amour-là

"Elle dit: non, ne pleurez pas, ce n'est pas triste, en rien, en aucun cas. Il s'agit de vous et de pas vous, oubliez votre personne, ça n'a aucune importance. Il ne faut pas se prendre pour un héros. Vous êtes rien. C'est ce qui me plaît. Restez comme ça. Ne changez pas. Restez. On va lire ensemble."

Yann Andréa


When the sun shines, it burns my skin that goes from a soggy yellow to a bright yet disgusting red. My head is like a cage my brain would like to flee from, my head is burning and my brain just dreams of shade. Then my legs start to ache, stiffening and swelling like a pig’s statue that would be made of hard but crumbly concrete. My feet beg for cool water and I dream of rainy Scotland.

And here you are, your eyes telling me you’re not dead, your skeleton sinking in an old-fashioned seat, your eyes looking up on me as if I was your savior, as if you were waiting for me, as if you didn’t give a shit.

But there it is: I just don’t know what to do with you. I don’t know why I still come to you. I don’t know if I ever loved you.

Sitting on the dirty grass, among all those unknown and marginal friends of yours, I finally saw how dead you were. A dirty memory of an adolescent refusing to turn into an adult, the ghost of this rich yet poor suburban bin, the incarnation of all the hatred our family produced in the last century: you are nothing, and I am nothing’s daughter.

How about that?

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