Nine Months

It will be somebody else.

It will be somebody else’s turn to offer pieces of herself that you can fashion into a new suit, a way of sliding the virtues of another on to your skin, moulding yourself to borrowed hands. It will be somebody else’s turn to reflect you like light off water, a somebody else who stays perfectly still to return the image you crave. It will be somebody else with a surface that wilfully deceives you.

It will be somebody else’s turn to falter and start when you collect their essential parts, when you leave them tilting toward what was taken. It will be somebody else hung on the wall, fragments framed and set enough apart for you to enjoy because she fits better in your palm in pieces.

It will be somebody else.

It will be somebody else who probably looks like me, how I probably look like her, the her who probably came before, and she, and I, and we … are nothing more than somebody else when you slide under covers at night – some somebody else you diminish to increase your size, to compensate for some essential lack she told you was fine at the start.

It will be somebody else’s turn to lie about that as well, you know.

Picasso Woman
Weeping Woman, Picasso
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