I have been disappearing since December,
in a room full of absence, chill, alarmed time,
each week a different chair to hold a little
less of me. Treatment is given by disposable
touch, masked smiles and words to gentle
my falling. It slips in with my pulse, runs mad
and knowing to pare back where I quietly ruin.
It empties my skin, paper-thins my defence,
making me newborn-naked again. I drift in and
out like melancholy music, let thinking wander
to mindless places, as I weather this leaving.