What Do I Really See?

One set, two set, three set, four sets of steps
And I’m there. The door farting back and forth air

From hall to balcony from balcony to hall
One step, two step, three step, fourth and I fall

Into four walls of plastered identity and reassurance
Under each freckle of skank sits flesh ready to confess

Hidden beneath student discount bras and an Oxfam dress
Box of unread books and teefed bobs and bits, there sits:

That clothes horse, then I see those clothes drawers
The stuff and tug of crafted, full-hearted, redrafted skins

I see that vanity, that all eyeing piece
The belly heightened throw back, holding varnish to saturate

A face that used to replicate but let hate
Emaciate as I’d manipulate features in wish to elevate

To higher realms, because of course that helped
But the cleanser and the cotton pads stack and squelch

I see that mattress, those bed sheets
There I’d meet collusion, dream the illusion that the sweat’s innocent

The blood stains are red paint, the limp arms deliberate
And the scum just a misprint

The idea of repelling the four-walled lacerations
With new furniture was futile and spenny

The paintings and peeling posters binge
On my restless nights where spine lifts and I twitch

I see that if I meet someone I like
I’ll take them into this space and do nothing at all

Just drape calves over hipbones, play with toes
Flinch and sink, frogleg from brink

Worry the stains when they dip were there pre-collide
Wash down to muscle and hide

I see that I see this margin as sanctuary
Even if I leave things so long they become rank to me

That I see the puerile flakes of sticky shapes
As desperation to bring personality to beige in the days of the uninspired

That I see the shoes lined up with every scuffed injury
A pointed fingertip to a night I moved body without being terrified

That I see the clustered dust puddled on unswiped surface
As my filth’s impossible rejection of the past being sterilised

That I see I put too much meaning
In material and fibre and wood and metal and ink

That it’s all mystical and magical and poetic
But does this IKEA coup find magic in me too, you fink?

I see that there ought to be a law where I can’t spend money if I’m out of hand
Because this fucking brain and fucking room is getting crammed

One set, two set, three set, four sets of steps
And I’m out. Prey to no taste and no flounce

From hall to kitchen to front door to street
One step, two step, three step, fourth and I’m free.

By Lyric Deep.

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