Who am I?

I am the blank canvas fully exposed and transparent,

absorbing and replenishing.

Taking out my brushes, I carefully construct the image

of corporate respectability, blending in the cracks

with coloured crayons.

I put on my body armour, but feel weighed down by

the sense of growing expectation.

Sitting in the carriage, I feel

an affinity with the invisible woman sitting opposite

travelling to an unknown destination.

I scan the rows of derelict mansions across Gloucester Road

but nobody ever exits.

The car horns sound in unison, waking me in moments of

silent slumber and servitude.

The elderly G.I compliments my intellect,

asking me why I am working

in this dead end job.

I cannot provide an answer.

I log into a fake blog, a comforting blanket designed by artists

who know me better than I know myself.

I hold onto the burning wires,

pulling apart the threads until I become undone.


I fight for control.

I surrender.

This life for hire.









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