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Shrinking
Publié le 21 oct. 2023
Mis à jour le 21 oct. 2023
Culture
1 min
Culture
Publié le 21 oct. 2023
Mis à jour le 21 oct. 2023
1 min
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Shrinking
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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.
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