Wednesday, 21 August 2013


The fist in her hair is all the small knives, just below the surface. She is sinking. She is dropping into water while a thousand bubbles explode across her skin. Her scalp. The small knives dig deeper. She is pulled across the room.

The way blood rushes: in heaves. In tidal forces. All of it and then none of it at once. She can feel the blood rushing across her skin, her scalp. She would put her hands out to stop her falling but her hands are behind her, her wrists are bound.

The girl is a marionette held up by hair and scalps and knives. The girl is kneeling on the floor. There is a thumb pressed into the print of her throat, pressed tight to the curve beneath the bone of jaw. There are fingers wrapped like rope around her breath.

Opposing forces. The girl is pulled in one direction by knives. The girl is pulled in the other by rope. She is trapped in a moment, teetering on the cusp of the cliff. She is trying to draw breath from the air in another room.

Stop. Look at this moment. Try to find something perfect in the balance. Try to picture yourself in the taut silver string.

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