Friday, 1 August 2014


The final guest has gone and this flat, these corners, begin to return to me.

The final guest has gone, for now, and my body is slowly shifting: blue to green to yellow to skin. I am growing back into my limbs.

“Stop scratching,” they all tell me, but how can I resist? Have you seen these marks, have you ever seen me so red and welted?

Oh, have you ever considered how delicious I taste?

This week was one of so much biting: the bugs, the boys, the bugs, the beauties. This week I was devoured by things both bigger and smaller than myself.

I let myself be taken. It’s a hobby. I’m never cuter than when I’m being devoured.

The final guest has gone and these two weeks are an inhale between then and Sweden. The oxygen I inhale will be breathed out in fjords and gulleys. Jack will catch a fish.

In two weeks, I will sit in silence, stacking small pebbles as monuments to the stream.

The laundry is in the machine and the dishes are stacked by the sink and I am about to slowly and meticulously return myself to this place.

This last month and a half came out of nowhere. Or rather, this last month and a half came out of the past, and sometimes the past oozes into the present like insulation foam expanding into all of our corners.

I let myself be filled. It’s a tendency. I’d forgotten just how good this one felt.

But now the final guest has gone and my body is not an apartment and the present asserts itself with sharp elbows. A jab beneath the ribcage to remind myself of me.

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