I look at myself, and wonder about this body, this mind and this spirit. My brain wanders as my eyes linger on my slightly parted lips – half-hoping that voice would emerge and mark myself. Voice can be an identity, a physical gesture that triggers flight or fight, and my voice is one of disguised shyness. Sometimes, my tongue stings like the tail of a scorpion born – no control, protective only of the self and a slow courting of death. My teeth does what it knows best. They bite and sink down on life. My hands rest at the side of my body – taskless and careless. If you look closely, my fingers might tremble a little bit and disturb the still air around them before settling. Clench, release, clench, release, clench. Fleshy tips trace up my hips, waist, breasts and along the valley of my collar bone. So much bone and bare. So beautiful. Release. My warm palms rest on either side of my neck. Someone said that I had a nice neck. I simply replied that I didn’t know how important necks are. I curl the ends of my dried lips up and smiled. The smile reaches my brown eyes – irises dilate slightly, shrinking in size, losing focus on sight and focusing only on seeing what I want to see. I blink back tears, or dust and I move along. The legs are long, but length does not matter when muscles – strong and big – wrap themselves on the bones and become as formidable as thunder. After all, these legs stride the earth, striking in any direction and conquers the path. Just do not look at them. Or dress to hide them. I am only taught to hide two things – the precious and the ugly. Maybe they both mean the same thing in the end? 

I pause. 

Am I not moving; merely freezing in place? Is that even possible before death as I observe my lungs dance for oxygen and my chest rise and fall. My body is an endless ocean with curves, folds and a tendency to never stop going. Even in death, is it possible to completely empty a body of movement? Every cell, every strand of hair and every drop of blood? Permanent stillness. How pretentiously poetic. 

My lips sealed and with a needle stuck in my bruised eye, I hold my breath but my heart breathes for me. The steady rhythm of silent drumming and electrical ambitions of living. Temporal immortality in the now. Red-made and muscled emotion. As small, as strong as this fist I clench tight. Stubbornness is a charm. No physical space left, but so much room to give. Switch all the lights off and watch the fairy lights glow in my veins. Running. Floating. Soaring. My heart is a lighthouse of the sun – guiding me to the endless lost land of blessed gold. Maybe it is peace for silence is golden and currency, just paper. 

My lined fingers unravel and I find-



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