It is no longer for the act

But for the service

It provides.

The prude, nor the whore

Will go as far

As the one with the right tally

And in all of infinity, one

Doesn’t exist.



Or rather, she doesn’t survive

The will, the temptation, the fear.

The body betrays

The world, betrays

The self.

For all of Mary, for all of Magdalena,

For every choice, there is a wrong,

For every sin, there is solace,

But she doesn’t know it quite yet

As it isn’t hers to begin with.



I believe that there is gain

In the pain of betrayal.

With the right words

And the right story to tell

The ones you chose, the ones you hide

And certainly, the ones told by lies

You whisper to yourself.

Because everybody got it wrong, right?

Except yourself.

But do you really believe that?

I chose none, and you chose it all.

But you and I are the same.

What you lose, I gain.

What you gain, I lose.

But it is not for us to choose

For what we tell is learnt

What we hide is understood

And for every lie there is a resonating truth.



All stories of an act escape freedom

To become capital,

Currency that protects only the wise.

The prude, nor the whore

Are protected, even besides

The norms that they abide by.

And those who chose the pain of the self

Know the ruling of the crowds.



The prude, nor the whore

Knows who to pay for silence, for esteem

That seems acquired for the rest.

Knows who to beg, at whose legs should she kneel

To request forgiveness for neglect of meaning.

Like given names, chosen words do hold life

Because acts only exist when they are told.

If a whore falls flat, and if a prude goes too far

She should know to never tell, for candor

Is a gregarious murder.



I am who I say I am

And who you understand me to be.

We build ourselves on meanings

Whose roots go back further than language

Further than all of us, intertwined with all our grief

Of identities forfeited.

We mourn not our deeds but their rendition.

Who portrays the self, who attends the stories?

Misunderstanding is bound to deceit, is bound to kill.

So should I rather die on my silence

Then act on my will.