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. 



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