I’ve been digging for a soil to welcome my rotting body

For a bed of grass that would have my shape,

For a place to rest, 

But nowhere, no one, 

Was rich enough to allow me

to decay.

(It doesn’t grow here)

I have been laying on sheets glued to my skin

On an empty mattress, 

My fingers torn and bloody from clinging to the fabric,

My cheeks red with sweat.

(Nothing grows here)

I needed to break the fibres of my muscles to 


As they were atrophied, 

Dried to my bones.

I dreamt of running, 

Running fast,

Running until you feel that dangerous metal taste, 

running, arms open in the blue embrace of dusk

Feet wet with dew grass. 

That dream was so strong,

I awoke confused of my stagnant state

I needed to unravel like a loose-tied string,

Gently settling on a piece of furniture

Like dust

So, I decided 

In the glory of night

In the quiet mausoleum 

That at sunset I would be new.


In the earliest dawn

I took my body out of bed for the first time in years,

Walked on my new legs,

Brushed out my matted hair and

All of this for what?

To live. 


I bloomed)


Embracing practically everything within the touch of the eye

Pushing my hands against freedom’s window

Straightening the wings, I sat on

I stayed a while, tasting sunshine through my fresh skin

I was ready to be let in.


Nerea Dezac she/they

Tioh'tia:ke / "Montréal"

A multidisciplinary artist born in Tiohtià:ka/Montreal and currently located in Brest, France, Nerea Dezac focuses on poetry and playwriting to discuss issues like fear, identity, womanhood and racism.