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My skin is tree bark and you peel it off and eat it
Mossy and bitter
Underneath: soft rubber,
Malleable, impermeable
Not porous.
Underneath, it smells like simmered strawberries,
left out in the sun to rot.
The skin behind my ears and neck is hot and sticky.
What does it want, I wonder, and why does it make my arms numb.
A trickle down my neck.
Sweat? Or is my skin melting?
I reach my hand back, find it covered in molten pink plastic.
So it was the skin.
I wonder what they'll think when they find me, a pink puddle smelling of rotten fruit.
"Someone peeled it open and left it out in the sun I guess. These things happen."
I wonder what you'll think, whether it will have been good to peel me open like this, or whether I might have been better as tree bark.
And as I touched you, did we mean it?
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3. |
To be seen and admired
03:28
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You're standing in a bucket of ice, and you look down and there's no bucket, but you're body is still shivering.
You panic every winter, because when that sun goes down it's not coming back up.
You'll have to climb over the horizon and put it back up in the sky yourself.
Do you have to do this every year?
Do you want to do this every year?
Maybe you shouldn't look down and see that there's no bucket down there.
Maybe you shouldn't put the sun back up there.
Maybe you should sit there with cold feet in the dark and wait until your toes fall off.
A day is a very long thing.
A day is an incredibly long thing.
Everything I know about you is in my chest and my legs,
stuck there, covered in meat and blood.
Trying to decipher morse code in my adrenaline as it flows by.
I don't know what any of these words mean but I know they're the worst I've ever said.
I don't know what these three words mean but I know they're the worst I've ever said.
These warm thoughts of you are the worst I've ever had.
I wish I was dreaming.
I feel your hand on mine and I wish I was dreaming.
We were just a damp pile of entrails,
And although we both sit here with open bodies leaking, we mustn't let this scare us from love.
Although our fists are bloodied, we must not let this scare us from each other.
You're not standing in a bucket,
But you're body is shaking.
Your body is cold.
Your body is shaking.
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The only thing I really like doing with other people is using them to hurt myself.
I like to fatten them up,
Feed them with pieces of my own body
Work them out so their punches are stronger,
So they can break a rib with one swing,
And knock out a tooth with one blow.
If you go down on purpose, does it count as loss?
Or is it commendable for being an intentional action?
In other words, if my skin is bruised because I bruised it,
Who won that fight?
Who won that fight?
In other words, if I talk to you when you're crying, and you cry to me when I'm talking, who won that fight?
If the image of your bloody face in my dreams keeps me up at night, who won that fight?
And if I keep your teeth in a box under my bed and the sight of them in my hands makes my eyes water,
Who won that fight?
Who won that fight?
It's a game of give and take, I guess: inflicting pain and receiving it.
Reaching up is always better than down or across,
so I'll bury you above me.
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If you force me to the cliff, I will go
If you drive me there I will go over
I might not, otherwise
I might not go, otherwise
Or I might find it on my own,
When I'm wandering around late at night
There I might think
Think too much and I will go
Think too much and I will go over
Think too much and I want to go over
I want a need to go over
So I will think of you
I'll thank you to push me over
I might not go otherwise
I might not otherwise
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SO//CAN//X London, UK
Musician/Digital Artist based in London, UK
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