I can never wash my hands of the guilt that eats my body inside out. It sticks to the dry skin under my  fingernails and stains the whites of my cuticles. It transfers to everything I touch, a polluted point of access. It digs into my palms and my thighs and the skin that doesn’t stay on my bones.

I am a frankenstein of all bodies outside of myself. A mother’s bosom, a father’s palm, Adam's rib. Every body that brushes against my skin exchanges rotting tissue with mine through diffusion. Mimicry, in a form of defence, of larynxes and soles. Cushioned falls with flab and faith of the once-foreign.