Jana Bou Matar

October 2020

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Photo credit: Elia Pellegrini

Where is Ground?

By Jana Bou Matar

I am trapped.

Trapped inside.

I can smell my bones.

Do bones smell?

Frigid.

They smell sharp and blue. Crunchy.

Like a crisp current. Like an invasive laser light.

Get me out of my body.

I can’t move.

The wall is as white as the sea.

I see myself drowning but not quite.

Water is down. Sky is up.

Sky is down. Water is up.

Where is ground? Where is ground?

Breathe. Breathe.

I’m so heavy.

I’m a heavy mass to this galaxy.

As heavy as sun.

I attract matter inside of me.

Matter free falls and disappears.

Vanishes into me.

First. My bed. My book. The light. The ceiling.

They sink.

Inescapably.

With gravitational pull.

Floor is down. Ceiling is up.

Ceiling is down. Floor is up.

Where is water?

Free falling units.

Units of reality.

Distorted.

I’m tanning to a very cold sun.

Love me, I tell her.

She remains Indifferent.

I expose myself to her, like an awkward sunflower.

She remains.

I lost my body.

Leg is down. Head is up.

Head is down. Leg is up.

Am I the sum of them or am I and them one?

I’m lost.

I drown. I come out.

I drown. I come out. Suffocating. 

Get me out of my body.


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