Sunday 1 February 2009

oystercatchers

sometimes, at locke, in the night-time, i would stand in the white-tiled bathroom of the boarding house, and open up my hands. a map of skin rivers. red lines or colourless, running over my palms. id bend back my fingers, until each crease darkened, opened up for me. like valleys. id stare at them, under the bare light-bulb. then close up my hands, go back to bed.

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