And the Empty One speaks to me,
He approaches the bed so I can hear him better,
He’s real shy, refuses to speak too loudly,
And his sentences end in whispers.
He is an envoy from Heaven, sent down especially for the dawn of my maturity,
Among other things, there are a thousand ways to announce that one is nothing but a poor puppet,
For young girls, we speak of angels, or sometimes of dolls.
It doesn’t matter, the result is the same :
It’s Emptiness in a ceramic, plastic, wood or linen shell.
Personally, I wasn’t much to begin with.
On my best days, I can behave decently, if I’ve had my fill.
It’s not my fault sad little girls end up turning into parasites.
As a kid, I was already spending most of my time observing termites.
He knows me, so the Empty One gently warns me,
Invites me to toughen up - you can tell he’s never been a girl.
He starts rambling about « atonement and sublimation » kind of bullshit,
Advises me not to give in to destruction,
Or something related to passions.
Like everything I’m told not to do, I go for it.
Baby, you insist on calling me your angel, so I’ll try to make you happy,
For you, I’ll try not to swear anymore,
No more dirty jokes or questionable hygiene,
I’ll wear only white and lace,
No yellowing teeth and never a suspicious pill.
I’ll even start eating again,
Trade the candy for the meals you take the trouble to make.
If that’s really what you want, or what you expect,
I’ll make all these efforts to transform myself into something more innocent.
But no matter how much I change my appearance,
—You know it too, deep down, I hope—
I’ll remain the girl who loves insects, rain, pain and short-lived pleasures,
Who tries to pass herself off as a lamb but ends up living like a spectre,
The brat who’s always had cats and big bruises on her knees,
You’ll reign on my empire of dirt,
My love, let me be your Angel of Mud.