Chantelle Van Vuuren
a rig of fishing line to lure in a hearty catch - sustenance.
But I am no angler.
The wire catches on my thumbs, my fingers pierced to the bone,
one prick for sensation an anaesthetic to daybreak.
Paraesthesia sinks in, stoking the fervent malaise.
And I am just trying to find my feet,
but for how long have they been webbed?
The doctor asks me and I lie,
I always lie. Because
to tell the truth is to be ashamed.
It’s getting dressed in the dark
and some days not getting dressed at all.
I take my mouth to the sea to greet the deluge,
in search of satiety
- but the tremors are salient, hips jutting out like the end of a peninsula -
I still haven’t found it.
Chantelle Van Vuuren (she/her) grew up in Tāmaki Makaurau and likes to write. You can find her work in circular, Tarot, The Quick Brown Dog and The Free Body Problem.