An Interlude

Of shadows and that thing between darkness and light.

It is so hot. 

So hot.

I have both fans running full blast and still my armpits, un-waxed and sweaty, smell. I lift my legs, cross,

touch. 

Huge, Goliath-an, flat black imprints on the ceiling. 

Rusty white ceiling.

I close my fist on the fan. Squeeze. Pressing air out as if juice from an orange. Spinning white orange.

On the ceiling the hair on my skin is invisible, the filed tips of my nails blurred into my podgy fingers. The ceiling tells no lies. It is more truthful than the mirror that dissects your face into colours, the photograph that distorts disfigures you into muck-white, plastic-thin statuettes.

The ceiling talks only of shapes. 

Larger than life.

Blacker than midnight. 

It outlines you.

Swallows you.

Whole.

Unbroken.

Plasters your protrusions to make you smooth, shiny, 

scarily real.