Art by Henri Matisse
This waiting is charred skin, its scar,
a permanence in epidermal memory.
This waiting is the echo of silent, hot
venom in neuron synapses, it seethes
and stings unreliably. This waiting is
a thought-alligator that bites off my
tongue and feeds on my language in
loud chomps. This waiting erupts
as seismic tsunami waves in my
numberless nerves, demolishing
some quiddities. This waiting is
the disease and the diseased. This
waiting is the cage and the caged,
and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
First published in the book Diacritics of Desire. Follow Nikita's writing on Twitter.