Being a base little thing. Stuck in the mud. In the thud not the thrum, the dense matter of it. 

You can stick the head in bushes of words for a while but otherwise it ends up sitting deep deep inside its own body. Sinking down through the neck, getting caught in the throat. Working its way, blowing the belly out into strange shapes until it slips slowly to rest in my guts a while. 

Sometimes I am sitting at the very edges of my skin. Knocking on its doors, flicking loose hairs and adjusting seams and sleeves. Watching the fences like a hawk. One palm to the eye, one finger in the mouth. 

Poultice, compress, sticks, floss, balm.  

I tried to keep the light, like the grey-blue skies of winter, but the cloth and skin calls in dark nights. Like droplets to hot skin. 

It is deeper and bluer and less stark. It is a warm dark room or a green dank cell. 

Not the nowhere place. It is somewhere.  

Some place with innards.  

As in broad billows and tight swaddles. 

In a bind. 

Undercovers.   

It is to say;

‘This is my house, this is where I live.’

But since I can feel my very self in the cells, feel my thoughts leaking out of my pores,

I don an extra wall or two. 

To remind me and to tell you; 

This is where I live, this is my house.