Kiera Woodhull

It is just my imagination that flies,While she is wrapped up in her bedsheetslike a nest.

I fix the cramped, lined pageswith my curious stare. How do youcome to exist?

If onlyyou could have witnessed howmuch I have changed: sit alonein a disused theatre and feel whatI have felt, see how the world hastransformed me, like the metamorphosisof a caterpillar.

Where is my oasis? Too far fromhere for me to crawl with thesedead legs, refusing to co-operateHands and fingers clawing uselesslythrough the grains of sand...

We wrote our names in the sandYou crossed mine out: I can't getback to the way I was.

Hold your venomDo you recognise the instinctin me, fellow scorpion?