By Natalie Room




It is not scientifically proven that cotton
Yet, it does –
as reducing themselves to wisps, sickness-laced:
fibres unbind their starched fusion.
Fibres stop licking their wounds,
self cleaning my self patterned

It is not scientifically proven that walls
Yet, they do –
with disguised eyes they burrow vision,
and hide in warren-portals;
magnifying glasses for Godiva’s
‘Peeping Tom’.

My seeing walls are chipped –
etched with small dents,
large dents,
scooped out in passion-feigning rage –
or rather, rage-feigning passion.
Our bare walls are created upon against their will,
sculptural relics to activity
all of which is good
even when bad.

It is not scientifically proven that my ceiling
Yet, it does –
and yetter still it will,
every time it’s let alone to contemplate
an empty bed

I ask it not to cry itself to sleep,
But it sobs still, stiller:
pollinating mould to keep it company,
it wells up! and up
again, again, again,
with geometric fungus
that if in hyper-focus,
would dance like pulsing veins
and from cardiovascular excess
breath out, cough out,
sawdust spores
that splutter out saliva
and bless me like unholy tears.

They speckle me dirtier than before –
not a useful sprinkler system –
not so, whatsoever.

But I am still the cleanest I will ever be.
Sewn in-to sullied sheets.
Locked in-to angry walls.
Looking up-to a crying canopy.

I am birthday-suit dressed in the freckles of each day
and I wear this unpicked constellation, polluted but proud.

Header image by Mirror_rorriM

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