**tw's: abuse, disordered eating behaviours, sh implied, death mention**
(i). i try to grasp at your silk-woven heart, my heart beats faster than your hands do. always at work, both always at war: the connections between hands to wrists to elbows to release: the same joints join up to make your armour. we clank & shatter together with the flow & ebb of some tide & i am empty once more. but you are ready: cardamon & دودھ & dates & almonds pad me out; fill my holes. bulge out of me. the blankness of my eyes is milky white for a reason.
these things sustain me & keep me whole. i eat not for life but for hope.
(ii). my seams are stitched up with the thread of despair [it was too thick to go through the eye of the needle properly so that is why i am loose in myself]. i shake a lot which does not help.
needles taunt me because they only need one eye to witness beauty & i need both but am blind in one. no amount of milk can fix that.
(iii). the crevices between my joints are the weakest part of me. they crease when all i do is look at them [i look at them often]. it is so hard for me to hold myself together. i am scared of the way my skin brushes my bones & i can never find the pulse on my wrist. i did not ask for this. i did not ask.
(iv). my legs have lost mass since i started walking back from death. the small mounds on my chest serve as a reminder that people want me to go back.
my mother. she held the thread. she made me this way & is sad i don't thank her
(v). so i sit by her legs & press her feet & am grateful she makes me hurt. i do not know my mother. she thinks i am someone who constantly wants to feel hot breath down my neck.
i think she is blessed.
i do not know my mother, even if she is usually good with thread.
[i need someone i know to stitch me back up properly but no-one i know can sew].
the crevices between my joints are the cleanest parts of me & still they are bruised. shades darker than our knuckles, i am a shaken, dust-ridden quiltbag; punch me & yes, i did ask. (without the questions, i would be more air than the rush, the adrenaline that propels you to fight, to always fight. i always float).
(vi). i wear clothes that hide the marks & have decided to take matters into my own hands;
although trembling is their natural state, they do a good job of seeking out finer & finer thread:
i have tried pulling out hair
i have tried unraveling the past
i have tried plucking at grief
& there is more to come. there is more to come.
(vii). sometime i run out of almonds
or the milk doesn't taste as sweet
or the date stones catch on to my lining
reminding me that i will always be wrongly bound:
i am told to go back & perhaps i should
for at least موت could tie me to the ground.
YOU ARE READING
body work
Poetry**for fans of plath, anne sexton & ocean vuong** 'body work' is a captivating collection of poetry that delves into the depths of human experiences, exploring the intricate relationship between the physical body & the emotional & spiritual realms. w...
