Introductions

My skin is soft, but moves far from its point of origin.
I have my father's eyes.
My smile is unstoppable
because I have learnt that nothing touches me.
Dying cells float from me, describing spirals to the ground.

My hands are unfathomable,
I do not understand how they hold things;
how this skin that is losing form is keeping grip.

I think I am beginning, I will not write the main body of this text,
I do not want anything to mean anything,
and yet I dream of permanent things.

I want everything I lack,
but not yet.

I sit awake at night skimming stones over pages,
I sit awake at night propping up shelves.



And while your family dies and your friends get older,
while your interest doubles and your ISA makes you wiser,
while you pine over the scent of old love letters
and fight dust and build utility rooms and buy kettles;
I pretend nothing is changing;

singing loudly over the thrash of hot water,
working up a lather into dyed hair and plucked eyebrows,
I do not notice what I am missing
and my body falls hastily to the ground.




Nov 2009