body work

xxxix: nothing much changes except the seasons

**tw's: disordered eating, death mentioned, depression, sh implied**

i still remember it, that feeling in heart,
a sort of jolt of calmness—so alien i cried, this
was the ramadan i read al-ghazali, my first where i was okay with not being

able to fast as a way of getting away with starving myself. my first time
i really felt blessed. that same summer i

felt my heart rip apart, i always remember it. my mother on the phone
saying the same things but in different words; always

a thesaurus when it comes to how she doesn't know me, i tried
a bit                                                too much & not enough. i cried

so alien, i was a stranger in my own home, see how now i call it
house, as if the more open the vowel sound, the less it would all
hurt. a greater berth to slip by, unannounced—

the after birth passed. i was the same, whoever remembers it? now it reverts,

every home-turned-house—in its entirety—
is just another sickbed—slanted, drip-led—
cold, to meet something of an eventual death. the kitchen, a morgue. each morning,

there is fresh juice. i have never
entered a room feeling
completely well. see, i stopped
writing letters a while ago. too many have been read

wrong. nobody
asks why—i learn to

do what it takes to take
care of myself, even on the days
i don't leave the house, these days
that's everyday. until there's a knock
on the door—

someone to check the rooms work alright
for me, does the bedroom know it needs to be
locked? they
track in mud & this is to be alive. i (don't)

drink the juice & avoid the knife. i

don't talk much about last night. that feeling in heart, so everything—i am told the
neighbour is loud & we s(l)ip away. i think about
how joints connect & my
skin aches. we could talk about how well
i do to avoid the knife. i think about
what it takes

to never move at all. it's happened more in
summer—how the
blood stills & the limbs stiffen. how
it hurts, but only a little

discomfort, after which
i am alone again. other people
need to be checked on. since

it's morning
time but it's dark outside. this is
the part of winter no-one likes.

i recall
all these addresses but don't
write them down. not even my own, see
no-one i know
lives in these places, especially home.

how many times do i
disgust myself? i look in the mirror
& see my mother, i clean it

& clean some more. the whole
place gets messy, despite this
still life. i scrub until

i erase the week. until the floor
bleeds & i remain on my knees.
until i feel something. the phone

trills, someone wants to know if
i'm okay in this weather. there's another storm passing through,
the wind scatters things &

i want to be outside. the street, a
graveyard. i say

i haven't been out much in this cold,
& leave it at that. it answers the question,
or one like it—i don't know why

the sound of the wind
reminds me of
how desperately the heart beats
to keep you alive—something in the way
it pulsates heavy—so
miraculous that it makes me feel ill—how
something
the size of a fist
almost wrenches out—all the time.
that must be why

i cannot leave a door open &
i don't look in mirrors—
i've seen enough—at night,

my hair is wet. i cannot sleep
until it dries, otherwise it
weakens & falls out—i
tell myself that tomorrow i
will move, if only if it is to
be pushed by the wind—i
don't know if this is honest of
what tomorrow will bring—

it could be a new dawn. my fingertips
touch the very edges of my face. with the first
cool water of spring,

i am fully cleansed.
still, the doors are heavy & i miss my friend.