The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant (Fassbinder, 1972)

Everything is cherished silver dangling lazy, reflecting the sunlight pierced like daggers through the hole of a window above my head. Everything is beauty on my arm, and I curse the misplaced, damning my memory’s thought.

Look at your poor languid figure, your feet dragging on the carpet, and your anguished sighs of imprisonment. I’ll let you go, I’ll always let you go, but please spare me the sting of details when you return, and just lie and say you had a fleeting burst of melancholy, and laid still somewhere in the dark, no one touched you like I do, no one’s lips caught your ear, all your secrets stayed safe as sad little mutterings beneath your breath.

I’ll give you that old-fashioned romance seen in the grainy picture shows you so loved as a wide-eyed little girl with popcorn curls. I’ll give you my skin, a fragrant, smooth palate, and etch all your desires on its walls. I’ll give you my word, a golden bond wrapped in thorns, just remain, my doted little thing, my warm place setting that breathes beside me at night.

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