You always had your finger at your lips, feeling for something invisible.
You pulled at the skin, at hairs that weren’t there, absent-minded.
I recoiled at the redness of your brow.
I hated this ritual, but you gave it to me anyway.
Sometimes I dared not look at your body; a decaying version of my own, weighted, puckered, drawn. I shivered at the marbled surface of your calves, at the figure they struggled to bear.
The day I came and twisted you out of shape was your greatest day of giving.
You gave me the curve of your shoulders, the slope of your back, your shuffle.
You gave me your crooked fingers, your aching womb, your mottled skin.
You gave me your eyes, your hum, your softness.
You are mine. My other.
You gave me your lips.
I put my finger to them, fleshy and familiar. A glance in a funfair mirror.
_ Brit will be posting on the 15th of every month. Come back then to see more._