Anatomy / I find that the fabric of cotton surrendering warmth is my third skin, and the one that coats the bone the second. I ask, what is the first? I do not know, does anyone know? My nimble fingers toy with hems, pulling upwards, like the sharp removal of a bandage - only less painful, slightly less. There is a separation of fibres - of fabric or from a woven quilt of cells and capillaries. My hands touched rounded plastic and your breath was warm against my ear, your fingers trembling at the nape of my neck and the small of my back. As we embrace, limbs and all, calcium white, cadmium red and cobalt blue, I felt our bones snap and mould to fit one another. You had your eyes low like your voice and you told me how we were toys. You caught my voice that lay in my throat and kept it in a jar filled with cold fireflies, glowing green, flirting with vibrating chords which once lay in my sore throat. You were grandiose in your manner of fingering, your hands teasing night air, casting animal shadows onto concrete walls and concrete floor, silhouettes coming to life. As you forgot, I transferred myself onto paper and pen, paint and canvas, and saw myself fade, right before innocent eyes and softened tongues. I left myself in the bittersweetness of the skin between each of your vertebra and the cinched skin between neck and bone. |
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