I don’t have grace, I only inflect and mutter, with the auspice of a raw throat. Thin tongue masticating above the intermediate triangle. The basin of this larynx is wet with words. Inhaling everything that is already gone. Everything in the room filtered through a salted slick, either intrinsic or extrinsic Mouth shut, I project soundless motions as a signal to no one watching. Anchored to a bone, I discolour, soft, movable parts, bleeding lipstick halos around my mouth.
I strip off my clothes, removing the layers like tearing tissue. Crevices full of secrets, head angled exotically, there’s a bird curving round my rightward cage, beak mark at breast. Hollow collarbone. Tiny wrists. A heart behind my left ear. I once looked so lean, now a contrast of smallish joints and impregnated womanly, engorged softness. There’s a mirror hanging in the shower, reflecting this sensuality of tarter fruit. It is normal to have illusions peppered throughout the house? There are things that have happened here that no one has ever seen. I’ve only alluded to them. On the small of my back, there’s an eerie suggestion of a hand-print. Are you imagining your hand there?