I was born into it. This cult of
Nude and brown and pink we all belong to.
Wrapped in a tapestry, embroidered with
Eleven miles of blood vessels running
Through. Let’s celebrate the siege. Now aren’t I rich?
A squidgy suit of armour keeping lungs
That could blow a wall down, and a heart that plays
To the same rhythm and time signature
As birdsong, or night turning into day;
A mind like a scribbled-in puzzle-book,
All pressed together into one, her, me.
The scratch of here and kiss of there, my own
Ingredients for that sweet black magic taste.
I came all hot and fresh, but now we are this
Collage of black ink and bruises and scars
And mapping of my days like the path of
Aeroplanes across an evening sky, or sniffing out
Trails etched into the forest floor. I
Can stand naked in a mirror’s frame and
My skin will sing out yes, yes, I am you
And I am yours. You wouldn’t take a
Woman’s lungs from her. When did the wrapping’s
Touch on your fingers become so much more important
Than the punch inside? We will iron it out,
And save it for another Christmas. I’ll wrap
A gift to myself and name it
Private Property to share with who I pick.
Eve may have reached for fig leaves but it was the snake
Who had the right idea. We cannot win. So
I will shed my covered, bared, black and white,
Sun-hot and shaded, slut, saviour and angel skin.
Step out of it, and into the blood of a
Morning, where they might just hear the cry of
Heart, and lungs, and brain, that have so long and
Hungrily been kept, right here, blinded, within.
Image by Elle May