Monday, 31 May 2010
01:12:35 AM (GMT)
Living like me's not the simplest thing.
You have to deconstruct cell by cell, over and over, until you can feel the spaces
between your atoms rubbing together. In and out. It's easy. The steady ebb and
Now absorb, consume, blanket the cradle of your hipbones so they aren't near as
sharp. You know very well what's happening, but you can't fight it. Say you can't
fight it. It's easy.
The extra handles spring up all over, back, neck, wrists. "Lucky I was like this
before," you say, but how does anyone know you're lying?
Stroke the recesses of your throat with calloused fingers. Nothing comes forth, but
say you've tried. It's easy.
When it comes down to truth-telling, you just.
You're lost in the flesh of a monster.
Hate yourself this way.
Despise your circumference, and wonder how many maps you'll need to read before you
make it back to the body that was your home.