Nazza

19 February 2026

Here I sit, exposed. Nude in the pop-up library. 
A spoiled grain from my animal body makes its way to the surface. It tickles the back of my neck with its warm whisper,
“Don’t sit there! You’re not allowed. You can’t be here. This isn’t for you. Leave now.” 
Who said that? 


Here I sit, ashamed. Baring it all to the physician I’ve met once. 
A familiar grasp on my shoulder; a familial line of questioning. 
“That never happened. Stop being so dramatic! Others have it much worse than you. Move on."  
Who said that? 


Here I sit, grimacing. My foot in the door. 
Attempting to materialise; solidifying my soul. Jumping off the deep end. 
“You’re not special. You have no place here. You are not qualified.” 
They didn’t say that. Who said that? 


Here I sit, disquietingly. Legs tucked up on a cheap blue chair. 
Passersby see my faults at a mere glance. Trampled paths pass by the one-way glass. 
“You are just gossip. Shallow entertainment. Nothing more than a tabloid tragedy.” 
 The room is silent. 


The spoiled, primitive grain of insolence protects and serves long after its tenure. 
It isn’t ready to strike, it’s always striking. Stripping confidence; stalling its collapse. 
The grain keeps me child-like, wide-eyed and trusting. Armour-less and arms wide open. 
Seeking the cloth mother. 


Birthed into the waters of blood-seeking sharks, the grain found me. 
Sheltering from the high tones of serrated voices, the grain found me. 
Blue in the face and red in the soul, the grain found me. 
Quick to reply but slow to resolve, the grain found me. 


Here I sit, vulnerable. Bearing the wind in my transparent skin.  
A gram of longing toils with the grain of despair. A gorge of ambition weeds out the unwanted growths. 
“Come into your own. Answer to no one. Leave and never look back.”  
The grain is just a grain. 

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