05th July, 2020

Shivering, my skin breaks into arches and delicate curls of these invisible replications. 


The doorways and mosaics of all the tombs I have explored, the forts I have visited in a time long after their conquerors left. 


In the cold, 

in the summer flares,

this naked covering of mine sinks like water around oil. It is 

cracks and words and canyons of memories, they glow softly in the light. This tsunami of remembrance is a welcome destroyer and I am standing still with my bare feet on the blank marble floor, wishing there was some truth to it all.


My arms, my spine is littered with crusty healing cuts and bloody black holes and I'm trying to remember what my body wants to forget. It seems cruel that way, to have to look in the mirror every time I go on these archeological expeditions and see my own mask staring back asking 


“Why? Why do you want to know? Isn't it enough that you are plagued?”


The emptiness does not answer. Waves lap against the shores of sinking skyscrapers, the littered glass glimmering on the surface of the water. Stepping stones, I tread their way to where they'll become sand once again. I'll wait for the tide to retreat into the newborn desert. Always to return. 


If only I had wings to dive into the chasms of my memory, if only they could stand the bloody blisters of my histories. Blood sodden wings are fickle things, they'll let you glimpse these wonders, leave you wondering as you 

shatter against the earth.


I rise, shivering. My skin breaks

into these brittle curls and arches, 


Fading, forgotten. 

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