On my longest nights, I talk with dwarves.

Last time, one of my fathers turned up with big, pacifist

eyes, walking on his quads. He’d pissed away his self-confidence.

He stretched to reach my portrait left on the table.

Footless ghost, he showed me his scars, but I didn’t have anything

to do with familial expectations anymore.

What does a thigh stump smell like? I still don’t know.

You think that I am all the figures of my dreams.

Just projection, clay sculpting. That’s why

I’ve been suspicious of myself for a while now.

Whose fear do I sleep with?

Can I be the embodiment of a stranger?

Since my father’s clothes have ultimately all landed

at the footless. They are who he spent his final days with, physically intact.

Still, a strange coincidence. My psychic pains have been easing ever since.

My plan is complete: I will return at night

as a brown and naked angel to cut out with my sword

the little people who rage

inside.