you ask me if i was ever a modèle vivant; i say no. the next day, a man stops me on the street and asks me the same, jotting down the name of his group on a piece of newspaper – please join, he says.
i tell you i wish you could exorcise me; you ask me if i dream in colour. the next day, i dream of you holding my hands, your eyes summoning patiently, quietly, knowing it is on the edge of me, on the lines of my mouth, along my throat, fluttering behind my birdcage. you hold my hands with both of your hands and i begin to cry; i feel a child crawling out of my chest, my mouth, my nose and my eyes, and you smile as i thank you for hearing me.