oneword.com

There’s salt all over this soft shell of mine. Air gently flowing from the fans above. I scrub, I scrub. The tenderness of rubbing away the old and dead, and bringing forward fresh, pink skin. I feel like a raw little crab, thrown momentarily into the boiling pot. For that minute it is not torture, but a warm spa. Tender and soothing to my bones.

If I knew what I wanted, then maybe I could ease up on wanting it so much. Stars seem to hold so much potential, but I gaze up and wonder how many moons will it take me to figure out who I am? Will it be too late?

My hands get cold and I stop asking.

There are two bees on my fingertips. It’s summer evening, he’s cooking steak burgers in the afternoon blue-orange light. I can smell the misty burning, I can taste the tomato sauce in it. Summer is fading from our little corner of this world.

‘Does the world feel itchy to you? like everything is shuffling, taking a breath?’

Hot air is heating their necks. They’re sitting at the skate bowl between their houses, hands inches apart just incase the boys from school roll around again. They’re smiling though – proximity is enough.

‘Something’s changing.’

I’m used to the hot bath. I’m used to walking with ice clenched in my fist. I do not believe that pain really goes away, we just grow accustomed to more. As we age, the burden on our bodies becomes too much. We weaken. Maybe we’re used to the licking flames at our ankles, but we’re used to the heat by now.

I’ll be just fine, friend.

The beasts, their hearts rumble. Their claws stretch sink between the cage bars and beg for freedom.
Let me free.
Let me tear you apart.
I know no favours.
I know no honour.

Just let me break free.

She dusts the flour off of her hands, but they still look like there are little grains upon them. She rubs them together some more. Flour, flour flooding the air. Puffs of it flick into her eyes, but she keeps rubbing her white hands together. She looks down, and they are withering away to nothing, but they still feel unclean. She rubs. Keeps on dusting. She sees bone and does not stop.

They crumble into nothing, and she is left only with wrists.

“I’ll fix it in the morning I swear.”
He bites his bagel and little crumbs fly over my sketches from last night. There’s a coffee ring on my favourite book. My back’s aching from his choice in mattress. Not that it matters. I make the things worth looking at and this wicked little man can’t help but harm anything that makes him feel small.