Disintegration in the Shell

The female body is a crypt of flesh and expectations. The soul locked in it rots alive, decomposing into whispers and fragments. The world sees only the shell: bends, depressions, skin and that's enough to make a sentence. If you reveal yourself, they'll trample you. If you hide it, they'll erase. Everything that it is comes down to a piece of meat, to the shape, to the wrapper, which is torn by looks, hands, desires. Her thoughts are dust. Her pain is a decoration. The personality crumbles like dust, without a trace, as if it never existed. Only the body remains. It is a sarcophagus. It is an epitaph.