There is a little girl with a marble torch that shines nothing but the colour she is made of. And the strings, like that of a marionette that keep her alive – and moving – are attached to the hand of one she does not recognise. Little puppet, little puppet, lick my skin.
Faulty fingers molest her moving. And she becomes bright – like something unrecognisable to God. And she twists her hips in longing, in revolt, to a moth that is drawn to her and refuses to die. She slaps her skin, reddens the blue to create a purple so devoid of anything, she lacks the strength to cry. She lacks the will to breathe.
My body is an alligator. Mirrors detest me. Men’s eyes pest me. And every time I blink I am a little less of what I was before. And a little more of what I could’ve been.