Sometimes on Sunday our sheets are like chloroplasts. We move in and out, a kind of miasma where our skin is completely permeable. She refuses to draw the curtains, always, and the sunlight is steadfast and golden. Have you ever heard of a rainy Sunday? Our bracelets clink together, the metal like ice upon glass as our lips upon flesh. The exchange of stamps and marks is fluid. Her skin is white and she is fish-like, slippery; the scales of her body betray no secrets. The world is indifferent. She lisps with her singing; it is like a kettle boiling with just that frisson, that amount of whistling. The sound of the radio fills the air with crickets. I am proud of how easily she makes me free. I embrace an alien quality, morphing into the shape of her body. You cannot clasp it anymore than you could clasp a handful of ocean. She slithers. Her sheets drip with the sunniness of Sunday.
Today I am starved of light. There is no photosynthesis. It is a gloomy Sunday and I listen to Billie Holiday, the rain making music of my window. I curl under sediments of quilt and Norah Jones is crooning to me, as if magic would happen if only this were a tin roof and I was the peaceful queen. They know nothing of this suffering. She is so far away and there are metallic sands which ripple with the languorousness of a dying jellyfish, a sweet diffusion into tiny particles. No answer to the water, no language upon the sound. A preservation keeps me from coiling completely back into matter. I too could be fish-like, surviving upon the one taut muscle that would undulate back towards the river. Westwards I stare at the glare. The key in the lock, its passionate rattle. I’d give up my life to avoid his entrance, to see the storms, properly on the sea, a vendor selling melted ice-cream, children digging holes in the sand. I’d cry into the colours. I’d want to mollify like that; compress this silken membrane, exact my own mode of decay. I would see her adrift like me: the purple one, bruised and stung on the cold white duvet.
/ Maria Sledmere
(fff prompts: non-binary, pride)