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It's the anxiety or skewed shame of voicing such events that contorts, the twist of having once appeared vulnerable, of how that vulnerability performs an enduring stigma. This is the complexity of re-claiming one's appearance, of speaking the past in the present. That night broke my faith in language to translate the self. Perverted by its economy, now older and hollowed, I know well how I have been full of it. To my — vai via, andate in casa, mi lasci in pace — they replied with English. Even one's own language can be refused if the need to differentiate a person is strong enough. For years now I have attempted to shape this sensitivity into poem, approaching that ambiguous venue as a space allowing for leeway, but it will not — perhaps will never — match words. As semiotics have insinuated, linguistic signification can exemplify negative relation, each character made meaningful by those it is not. Prose only seems to perform most explicitly — by this I mean neutral — this void.
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