Mid way to seventy six.

I have it all (I did).

On the up, once,

Now down,

Until I’m stripped.

(You were taken from me.)

Pared, unwilling,

Slices, thin and thin, repeat,

Each bloody cut.

I shrink.

Half way through, I stop,

Stop, stop.

A moment on the peak,

Should be joyous,

Breathless awe.

(You should be there).

My story’s mundane, so many others,

Yet we each stand alone.

And the view from here,

I look both ways.

Rear view: a precipice.

Not one step forward,

I stay,

The flame shakes.

Still flayed, red raw,

I won’t go on.

(No way back.)

What I see ahead is smoke,

No mirrors for false comfort.

(I can’t look back.)

My head drops.

How long can I stand here,

Alone?

Tough outer shell.

Spikes say I don’t care,

Stay back,

Beware.

I become black, I become metal,

For a fraction of a …

She thinks it might fit better, (something else’s skin,)

For a moment she hopes …

… maybe hope is what she’s travelling for.

She hopes that …

She hopes that …

No. I don’t.

I can’t.

I won’t.

He’d want her to.

I don’t hope.

I can’t hope.

No new skin will change what’s inside, no dye, no Desire, no tight black jeans nor kohl-lined eyes can stop them seeing that,

Now I’m nothing.

She slips it off.

Ecdysis leaves her vulnerable, but not renewed.

She’s naked, truly naked for the first time since …

Have you ever seen someone burnt? Flayed? Red, raw, naked muscle, glutinous yellow globs of fat, pounding veins, glimpses of heart, brown-red liver, lumpen bowel by the yard? That’s her without a skin. No outer sheath to save her from the world. But leathered skin didn’t save him.

Rivers of water stream, steam.

She raises one arm, watches biceps contract, triceps relax, ribs flex and separate. The bones are still there, she should be glad. Cold comfort from the hard white strength that still bends before it breaks.

Does she have a choice? If she strips her skin can she wield the pathologist’s knife, peel back muscle, spill blood? Because despite it all her heart’s still pumping and there’s that bloody metafor. He’s gone but her heart goes on so she has to wear her skin again.

Suit up,

Zip it up,

Shut up,

Suck it up.

She emerges, pink, from the bathroom, blue jeans, white shirt.

Still me,

Still here,

Still nothing inside.

At least she says goodbye, doesn’t run this time.

but somewhere she is stuck.

One life gone,

And sixteen other lives won’t go away,

and she isn’t going to stay

so she strips her possessions like she gave his away.

Is it betraying him to leave?

Did she betray him when she stayed?

Will she betray him now?

“It’s all for sale, yes everything.”

“What would I stay for, here?”

“Take it. I bought the bowl not dog.”

“Where to? I’ll let you know.”

she won’t

Somehow it’s right that all she has fits in one bag and somehow it’s too much. She climbs on the bus leaving her coat at the stop, her book on a seat, a drink on the bench. She’s shedding. Her snakeskin’s coming loose, and maybe once it’s gone she’ll be shiny again.

This isn’t something that she can shed like a skin. Maybe she needs to be arachnoid and emerge from a body somehow larger, but right now she’s not larger, she’s smaller and she shrinks inside it.

Have I done the right thing?

Have I done the right thing?

Have I done the right thing?

There isn’t an answer, and the snow’s still melting, and of course she’s going south but just because spring is turning into summer it doesn’t mean things are getting better.

Fuck metafor.

She likes it better when she can turn her microscope on cells, not words.

She sees that fragile new lime green leaf, effortlessly shred, is formed of cellulose, given rigidity by something as fluid as water, and she looks and she looks until everything that she can see is broken down into its component cells.

Smaller and smaller …

smaller and smaller …

… smaller and smaller

“This stop for the airport.”

So she goes.

I lied, you say,

I lied to you.

I lie a lot these days,

I’m fine,

It doesn’t hurt,

Not any more,

I’m moving on,

It’s fine. I’m strong.

Pick one of ten,

Then spin again.

Russian roulette,

Perverted odds.

Come in number thirty nine, your time is up.

So does it matter if I lie,

To you?

To me?

To him?

What does it matter…?

What is true to you?

I’m lying now,

That I don’t care,

That I’m not angry with you,

That I’m not angry with him.

And what is true,

A trillion cells,

And which one lied?

And what is true,

One leaking vein,

And still he died.

And what is true,

No suicide,

No heart attack?

(No coming back.)

What’s true is that,

He lied to me.

I lie to you.

And when I wake, you’re not here.

Ice softens outside the window, my eyes forced open to the grey,

Sky, white sheets,

Framed in gold-brown pine.

And the grey shades to gold, and the ice drips

And you’re not here.

I close my eyes, desperation-driven to go back again,

I scrabble against the white,

Snow melts,

There’s nothing to grip,

And if it won’t be held,

I seek the void again.

Blackness is kind, a little death each night,

Inspired by hope,

(I will not hope, I cannot hope).

I close my eyes and somewhere I hope,

In sleep,

I will no longer be alone.

Hope much betrayed.

Night after night.

Sleep drags me from the day,

                And I go willingly.

One night I swallowed small white discs,

Promise of sleep easy earned,

But what is sleep without dreams?

And what are dreams when you don’t show?

Night.

Night.

Night.

Night.

Night.

And in unexpected sunlight,

The ice is melting.

Drops that fall in snow,

You were here, I know.