a poem in which i keep losing

clumps of hair on every surface. they say in medical terms,

when you lose hair, you start dying. it has been 243.3 days.

stained acid teeth (not the acid you think). someone says,

don’t you brush, well maybe i don’t and we laugh so loud,

from another room someone worries i am sobbing. a pair of

jean and my grandmother’s cashmere cardigan. i was an odd

child, blood made me think of berries and gashes were

alleyways. flesh & cold bones. i don’t trust people who don’t

know the cold. stuffed smiles and uncomfortable teeth. it

does that to your teeth. i tell my therapist, most of it is a

convincing act. restaurants and bars only serve liquids and

fear, i learn to stay away. i say jean and not jeans because i

lost a friend who always called it jean. people bring over

soup of all kinds: clear soup, purple cabbage, chicken noodle,

broth, a side bowl for my tears. grimy neck & shrivelled

palms. the nurse in my dreams says i am allergic to water

but she calls me darling and has a kind smile so i keep

sleeping. burn marks on my belly. things develop an ability

to slip & my spiny back remains on the brown couch. my fear

is brown in colour, the robes and the rings slip off and the

women in my village tell me to safely safety pin it to my skin.

fingernails scraping my throat. dead hair looks like bugs and

i am scared of everything black. i keep it in a bin next to my

bed, under the sink, in my pockets. most days are spent

coming to an agreement with the voices. i call mother and

tell her, didn’t i fear the rain flies? She reminds me i did i did.

*Thumbnail Photo by Richie Bettencourt on Unsplash