I am collecting the disliked bits: myself as dark, ridged stones, frothy with knitted-in flesh. I would change, given a wand and grace (that ineffable word, silver as a cat’s arch) but I’m spittle-shot and thin of eye unable to see a way out of the orange moon-glow. My conscience, an apricot clamour - juice on my face its sticky witness. Silence screeches // thickening in my ears. Just so does an apricot’s swell suffocate the seed.
I posted a longer version of this a few nights ago but decided it was incomprehensible and withdrew it. I have tried to give it more shape.