Bring the rope closer

to something or to the distance of something,

that something and the distance of someone, someone absorbed in something

something being pressed

against someone or something

or her or that which hangs from you, something, someone, neither a memory

though its speed

belongs to someone,

perhaps someone and her, her without warning or something that is lost among a rope: someone

that is something.

“She was born on August 19, 1962. Or 1963, I don’t remember.”

“She hanged herself.”

“That she was found with her hair pulled out.”

“Already dead?”

“They say she regretted it.”

Something or her distance.

Of her?

Of the rope.




So? 



Something is what leads us to believe there was something more in her. Something more, yes.

Something like an instant unrestrained. 

Something like an expectation.

Something like her that was something and not that rope.

Something and not a buried body.

(so far from the family crypt because there are dead about which we must not speak).

Something like her that is something and not this lucid sense.

Something like this sanity and its subsequent defeat.

I play with the time of her birth and focus on the date.

A fate that might be different?

Something persists. Something that is someone.

A parsimony of hands. A little dead girl.

The fingers savouring the rope. They say that.

What she would have been. What would have become of her.



How is it that that rope left her.

It left her hands.



In order to speak of her and, and, and the rope,

you make a theory of the emotions:

He wasn’t speaking to her.

Nor of her.

How are you in relation

to what you present of her?

Our parents kept us from relating.

Her complexion was distinct.

Her manners also.

Her in general.



She’s still alive (a supposition). Still so alive. A suspicion. Nerves in repose. The string is still alive.

Something, then. A somebody. Someone. Hope is a ruthless place. But they placed dirt on her. So much dirt.

They placed (verb, her) on the tomb. It was also a future lesion.

A marked discomfort.

I grew up with her name.

They call me and my retina detaches

because she hangs from me.

She is one of what I could have been.

Two months after my birth, she died.

Before I was born, my mother asked her the following:

“Can I give her your name?”

She said yes.



Who would attack themselves?

And attack me?



Someone recovered the diaries.

The first years aren’t within our reach. Nobody remembers her entirely now.



The memories have been falsified.

The guilty are those who are able,

able to invent her.



“Perhaps they expelled her from childhood like you.”

You were a girl. Not something, nor someone.

That child, then, defers.

An innocuous gesture (not to say, almost apt), falsely stupid,

to have to survive

the lies of the family.

“This is also to die for.”

It’s from there, with them, that she becomes hunger (this ferocious hunger). These things are something.

“She wasn’t there.”

“She wasn’t.”



She left, but it wasn’t here.



“And it’s because what she did requires a lot of praying, otherwise you end up in purgatory.”



But yes. It was a contradiction.

To say “yes.”

The voice growing faint.

“Say my name.”

“Say you are her.”



That madness of killing yourself.

That madness to kill yourself.



“They say she was dead when they found her.”

“They say many things that aren’t true.”



At times, rage is elemental. No. There’s a sophisticated ire. An elaboration of the emotions that cannot be separated
from what's maneuvered, what’s thought by her. She wants to be primitive, but thinks too much about herself. Who was
she then? No. This book will not give you life. This book will not be able to return us to that scene of bursts and
discontent. This book will not dampen your name. This book will not raise you from the tomb. This book will not sediment
you anymore. This book will not recreate you. This book will not make you escape your anguish. This book is not for you.
This book is not. This book no. No. How much does it cost us to carry an idea to its end? How much does it cost us to
finish? “Don’t leave things half done,” they told me. An echo in my head. An exasperation. You are interrupting her.
“Melancholy is the bliss of being sad.” It is a melancholy for the well-behaved ones. “For the angels like her that are
watching you from heaven.” And you and, and a sadness without cause. Must sadness shed a tear? There are no tears
more wasted than yours. No. “To write it is to defeat her.” I go over her diaries. A series of annotations calls my attention.
They are dated October. It’s a recounting of tears. Or of whatever they wanted to call thus. In that way so as to justify
themselves amongst one another. No.



How to materialize a death?

How to say no to a dead woman? But yes.