Breathing

I follow the stone angel along the path leading down the hill towards the village. Aware that I'm feeling naively excited. Soon there'll be people looking into my eyes, into me. I will see who I am again. Stronger food and diesel smells fill me and coat my skin, sheening me off from the roughness of clothes and fingers. I cover my nose with my palm and breathe deeply. I need to remember my own smell so I don't lose myself in the crowd.

I'm sweet sweat and blood and milk and earth. Sweet sweat and wet fire

Afterbirth

It takes a lot of courage to sit up. I hug my knees. Running the tips of my fingers over the scratches, brushing the dust and dirt and blood away. The laces of my boots are loose, undone, tangled. Just breathing and looking for a while. Just staring and taking it in. My hands are beautiful. Strong nails, square palms, deep dimple at the base of my thumb. Soft brown sugar skin. Am pleased my fingerprints are mine alone. This is me. I'm seperate now. I must walk to the town.

Ha! Maybe, standing like a newborn foal, I think, maybe I'll walk in circles for a while.

I was born

It was a dark and sultry night. As dark and sultry as Salma Hayek's crotch. Burnt stubble stabbed my back and legs, I clung to it as if I'd be spun off the planet without it. Stars and planets whirled and whooshed and whizzed above me. Hot, wet smoke and candy floss flavoured night breezes clouded me. Cars on Mountain Road lapped against the shore.

Time.