house of dead skin and smokescreens | a poem behind my door

she sits at the head of the kitchen table

she knows that she will leave

she tells her body to get ready

to do as she says

and he comes in

forces his open face on her lips

unswallowed coffee in her mouth


she can’t sleep

she hears him touch himself

talk to strangers on the phone

she is unaccompanied

he invites them in

I hear him finish


I watch him touch himself

because he pretends to be alone

who would ever speak against him

this is his house

he does as he pleases

with his hand under his pants

watching television

eating ice cream


you didn’t shed skins

you skinned yourself

to remain unrecognisable

Photo by @seb on

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