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Poem
Woke up from a dream in which I had been the target of abuse. The image of him 
crouching at my lovers door, wanting him more than he wanted me punished my 
whole being all day. In the dream we were caught but the larger horror was that 
the act betrayed everyone but him. I longed to get out of that dream and to feel the 
pain fade away. It didn't fade all day.

I'm never alone these days. I live on my own and I walk on my own from the 
house to the shops or the webcafe, but i'm never really alone. It's like an 
appreciation of something else happening inside me or slightly behind my faded 
eyes. When when I am naked I am wrapped up in it and it gets harder and harder 
to breath through it. On the television someone is bleeding inbetween sex. We 
are all tubes. Now they are crying after the sex with the blood on their hands and 
lips. My blood is inside me, watery and thin and longing to be warmer.

I spoke to him on the phone just to see if he was alive. He starts every call I make 
to him by breathing as if he hasn't opened his mouth or his nose all day. Aware 
that I don't have to call, he perks up knowing that I have, but reminds me with his 
lack of words and his sipping that the only person who could pick up the phone 
to answer my call is him. I wanted to tell him about the dream, maybe to seek 
forgiveness for my inside-self stopping his abuse by allowing my own. I wanted 
to explain about the ghosts I'd chased and the horrible image of the crouching 
man, old skin hanging off rubbed elbows. Instead we talked about tobbacco and 
other passing things. I'll call him again later just to check that he's asleep.

The person on the television has the body I used to have. He reminds me of the 
fullness I used to feel when I ate and the intensity of feeling I used to be capable 
of. All day I have wondered about the value and reality of those feelings. We have 
all been born to die, to pass through things and pass away. We are all walking 
eggs, unfertilised and incapable of change. I want to reach out and interrupt the 
man walking on television and caress his youth and tell him things. He's 
smoking and i'm smoking and both of us are acting, one reflecting the other.

Easter Sunday when things were unborn and shells were walked upon deftly. 
Isn't it funny that the more complex things become, the less we talk and the more 
we understand.

The neighbours plodded and stomped loudly, either unaware or too aware of the 
necessity of night time.
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