I'm acting like some undignified root vegetable, feet digging deep into my laundry pile, and back curved forward like I am a sleeping Sisiphus. Unintelligible thoughts in my head rot and fester. It's not that I won't uproot myself, or that I can't. It's the microbial distractions racing in my brain. Back aching, creaking like an old oak. It reminds me of doors swinging back and forth but not quite shutting. A boat wobbling in a storm surge but not overturning. Yet, if I was to rest lying down, I might not brush my teeth until midnight, and if I don't brush my teeth until midnight, I won't sleep. I can't stay here. I'll roll down a mountain of fabric. But maybe it is important to wait, but why? To write this down? Opinions, politics, insecurities, they do not matter while my stench bothers me. There are many grossities of my body that onlookers can't see. Maybe that's why my beauty comes from, because they can't feel my body from the inside. The pimples, the infections, the razor rash down below (last weeks prettification project). I am something to fondle and thought of fondly, not to be empathised with. But what if I have a growing tumor within? I don't check in with each cell of my body. I am selfish. I need to move.

© Eva Irvine