The catholic church gave me a certain view of the world, and at some point, I realised the sepia colour they print it in to appear ‘oldy worldly’ is actually brown because it's been dipped in poo.
Now I move on again, from red lust of deep gaze promises, from burning cross to blue eye stare. The mysterious moves of the other nail me with a familiar script of self-critique. ‘Not good enough’, I learnt to write this on my hand when I was a child dressed in mismatched white frilly socks, to prompt me when I didn't know.
But now something else captures my attention and I close off from all stimulus. I realise that the darkness that falls when I close my eyes, it’s my night sky which is glowing black and unanalysable. There is no atmosphere nor words or shapes to splash paint or spark feeling. It's just the brush of my own hand across my own skin, and the physical sensation it creates flutters at an unpredictable frequency which is all mine, from baby cry to orgasm to wrinkly death.