Medusas Pain

Leonie Winter 
Marleen Uebler

The day, when you first saw yourself differently in the mirror. As you realized how men look at you, realized what they really see, what they really want. And you were just disappearing.  

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The surface of the mirror shows me a version of myself, today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow. I stare at my face, stare into my eyes, touch my hair. For the first time in years, I don't feel any pain. I don't feel disgust.  

Who burns? 

I turn away, leave the familiar pain from vanity behind. 

“No more pain”, has been a lie, because right now it's hurting again.  

I just didn’t want to be a doll anymore. Next to him: he was always so tall next to me, me wearing my skirt, staring up at him. Beneath him. His gaze lofty. 

The fight we had, because you didn’t like how I dressed. I told him, that I was just like he was: proud of my body. But that was different. And that was his view, I had no right to dispute it. 

The piercing pain of a sickness, that spreads through words. This time, it's the pain you're feeling, that echoes in me. Later, after you're gone. It spreads, on my skin, on my soul.  

The anger, that I vent on you, on him. The looks, that could kill, if only they could. Fear that consumes me, alone in my room. Only the words echo in the silence.  

One day, the calls got out of hand. “You looked so good today.” The roses in my room. The fear of your gaze following me everywhere. Shame, that burned me.  

Burning. My eyes are burning, but actually it's my soul, that writhes and squirms. How do you describe something, that cannot be compared to anything in the world?  

Nobody likes to lose, least of all me. And yet – I lost you. Lost myself. I writhe in her grasp, because all I want is to run away.  

One day, I shaved my head. I got a tattoo. I manspreaded in the trains. A first, tiny step.  

The insecurity spreads onto others, when she walks next to a group of men.  

What hurts the most?  

There it is again, the mirror. Its shards cut my palms. Thousand versions of myself stare at me. Thousandfold disappointment? Or am I the only version of myself, who's failing?  

My snakes protect me. They hiss and stare into your eyes until you turn to stone.  

My knees. Pain from reality's cold hard floor. I hit the ground again and again. I am shaking, but I get up repeatedly. Covered in blood. Tears carve their way on my face. Warm, salty. Almost like salvation, finally letting go.  

Your hands are like shackles. 

I nod and smile. 

Your gaze, again. 

Just shut your damn mouth. 

I cannot forgive, because I know what has happened to so many others.  

Not every man, but every goddamned woman.  

I cannot describe it. Black earth, the smell of leaves, wet from the rain. A sky full of clouds – and I. I am at a place, that surely doesn't mean anything. But to me, it’s precious.  

Walking through the woods, feeling the cold earth.  

The warmth of the moon's rays above me. Back to the roots, I can almost smell the fire, hear its sounds, I walk faster. I don't want to return.  

Sometimes it's a calming thought that between the stars only blackness exists. An eternity of nothingness. A timeless place.  

It takes away the pressure. In another dimension, I don't have to be anything else. I just have to exist.  Maybe here? 

I shout, I am loud, I am angry.  

Not hysterical.  

I hit the ground so many times, until nothing is left. I am putting myself together anew, until I am a monster, all wrong. A mirrored version of myself, convinced to be doing the right thing.  

And yet it still hurts. Back then, I was also okay, I think. Am I better now? 

With you I walk hand in hand and feel safe.  

I step in front of the mirror, back on earth, away from all dark matter of this place.  

I am no mother.  

I am no saint.  

And I am no bride.