red marks on my chest in an explosion of disease. they’ve all got it around this building, some kind of ambiguous bug that puts stones in your eyes and thoughts down the drain. a scattered sense of self along the pavement and walls and through the mud of north london. limbs are rotting up and down the stairs and in your bed too. a hand across my mouth, I bite holes in the sky.
wet mud covers my skin, already breaking in jagged lines and falling off like nothing has happened.