My Paper Lungs

White. Bone White. Smooth to the touch, cold. I run my fingers across the basin, the curve of the ridge of the edge, the join of where sink meets tap. The abuse of metal joining. Obtuse angle, penetration. I turn the knob and watch the water spurt out. Pour out. The sound of pipes adjusting themselves in the wall. The gurgle of a man’s intestines.

I use my fingers to massage my bare arms. I reach up to slip the straps of my vest top off. I stand in the bathroom, the material at my feet on the floor. I feel the pinpricks of cold skin flaring in protest against the tiled walls, miniature moans of fleshy cries. The empty sink, the closed door. I step over my top and rest my hands on the edge of the basin, feel the contact of skin etched with mud and dirt, leaving scars on the white. My fingers gripping tighter and tighter I can’t stop I hear the sink creak as I lean further into it, the weight of my body my gut-my gut- my gut of ribs and flesh and sinew –

I feel my gut heave.

Empty. Water spurts from my mouth from my stomach splattering the porcelain sink below. Spittle dribbles down the edges, the corners of my mouth. Linked. Webbed strands. I use my hand to wipe away the remains of my lunch. Wash my hands with soap and water.

Again.

Another heave. From lower down. From inside. Muscles contract, flesh tears, feel the fibres f – f- fall apart as I fall to the bathroom floor. Grab the basin. Lungs clap liver. Miss. Hands land on the edge of the bath.

Cold.

I fall. Crouched under the porcelain sink.

The bump balances between me and the bath. Naked I sit bathed in afternoon light. Distorted. It cuts me up into bite-size pieces. My head rests on the edge of the bath. The smell of bleach and mould remover. Stale towels. I can see the veins on the surface of the bump, red and purple marks that show the growth the stretch of the skin. The grey distortion of matter. A bruised apple kicked in the playground. Dusted with tarmac grazes. It smells of soil and sweat from earlier. It smells of vomit and ground coffee beans. I close my eyes and inhale. I must ride the next contraction. Feel the –

A guttural sound of animal pain echoes around the room. My teeth ache with extension, electo-therapy tension. Pulse-pulse-pulsating painandmucle and white white white –

White. Bone White. Smooth to the touch, cold.

Strands of hair fall in front of my face. Remove my vision.

I take a breath.

I think of the garden. The budding poppies. The upturned azaleas. The raspberries tipped from their pot, rotting in the heat. Abandoned sandals. Dirty feet. 

I run my hands around the edge of the bath. Focus on the contact of porcelain and skin. My skin. The reach of my fingers the joints bending and flexing as the pain subsides. I grab hold of a flannel and squeeze it tight. The pain evaporates into the air vent above.

Breathe.

Inhale.

The vibration of a bluebottle fly above my head.

I hear noises downstairs. Faint chatter of man on phone. The creak of the floorboards mark his movements into the kitchen. The clink of the glasses. The thud of the cupboard door. The sound of champagne being poured.

I grip and lift myself up, balancing the fallen bump on the edge of the bath on the edge of my knees. My spine shakes from the effort. A pint jug of Pimm’s ready to spill. I lift one leg over the side, as if trying to sit on a small horse, then pivot and use my weight to pull the other leg over. I land in the bath.

The crack of bone on bowl. Pelvis snap. Garden branch underfoot. Sunlight

splinters. I let out a cry.

PETE

I call the man, but he does not hear. Too engorged on his phone. Too disembowelled by champagne.

Pete

The name falls from my lips, dry leaves. I lick and eat the dead skin, bite it off like orange peel.

I am cocooned in the bath. Trapped. The curve of the fixture matching that of my spine. Exhausted. I rest my head back and look-up at the ceiling. I am in a clinical womb of my own making.

The smell of bleach –

I stare. My body will soon make red. Striped candy cane theatrical laughs. Curtain rises. Show: pelvic floor muscles. Sterility destroyed. I did it when I was 16, I’ll do it again now.

Another cry escapes my mouth.

Elastic band snap. P – p – ping back and strike the hand. Red bug-bite.

I grind my teeth and shut my eyes

Mechanical fixture hip re-alignment. Open ticket gate expense.

I open my eyes and the bathroom is dark. The light has gone and left me alone.

Is it happening?

The man’s voice muted through shower curtain folds.

White. Bone White. Smooth to the touch. Cold.

Shall I call an ambulance?

Muscles retract.

Red. Blood red. Thick to the touch. Warm.

Specks of blood: pirouetting poppy petals.

Raspberries crushed under naked feet.

The gurgle of a woman’s intestines.