Don’t Look Down

I look down,

in the sun I see my hands.

I don’t recognize

the freckles splayed across them.

I don’t like

looking down.

I also hate the sun.

.

~

.

In the shower.

.

I look down,

I see my feet.

.

I look down,

I see my legs.

.

I look down,

I see my stomach.

.

I look down,

I imagine nothing.

.

In the dimmed light,

I don’t see the freckles on my hands

raised to my neck.

.

~

.

Nothing takes the shape

of bands of cloth.

I don’t use wires

anymore.

Wires trace

the outline

and force me,

to look down.

.

The bands of cloth,

can’t be too tight or loose,

I have to reach,

the perfect level of unawareness

to imagine

nothing.

.

I can wear nothing at all

on nothing

as long as I don’t

look down.

.

~

.

If I don’t look down,

I can pretend nothing is there.

I can pretend,

my freckly hands,

don’t feel nothing.

I can pretend,

I can’t feel my sweat,

born from the sun.

Oh how I hate the sun.

.

The heat makes

me feel

my outline,

my weight,

myself,

and shows me

my shadow,

where there are

no

gaps.

 

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