it’s getting darker on the corridor.
I can still hear my old roars
Of hysteric laughter.
I met myself once, in the mirror,
When I was about nine
And I couldn’t stop starring
Every time I passed through the hall.
What kind of a neat surface
Dares take advantage of my glimpse?
I remember I used to
Comb my locks for hours
Counting the hairs entangled in my brush
And I wished I could grow feathers
So that I changed my me
Into a stranger.
Cold shivers creep under my skin
Dragging forwards this illness
That makes me wake up in the middle of the night
And search for my old fingers.
I can feel the sheets tight around my body
And start to sigh desperately looking
For the night before I was born.
It’s getting darker on the corridor.
Entrapped between the walls
It feels damp and warm like a virgin womb
Suffocating with the lack of
Amniotic liquid.
All of a sudden, my hands
Start to grow into bushes
Of hyacinth
I can even feel their smell;
They make me nauseous.
I burst into laughter one night
In my sleep
As I remembered the time
Before I was myself.