Intimate I
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 my 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.