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
(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 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
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?
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.