I live in a body
that isn’t mine
divergently pale

thick like ghee
those white slabs
in the fridge I didn’t recognise

When I shower
this body is absent
water falling on deaf skin

running drizzle like a scar.
These fingers
feel something muted, distant

and the soap falls through gaps
slips down
to foreign, senseless toes.

I avoid the mirror,
facing the wall, 
the fear of not being.

9 thoughts on “Absent

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