I understand what you’re trying to have me do.

I’m

just

not

very good at it.

I can’t remember the colour of it all,

But I do remember the shape.

The jagged edges make my hands hurt.

(Did you know I cry every time I write?

Cutting out these pieces of myself hurts as much as it heals.)

I can’t see pictures in my head.

It’s called aphantasia.

Instead, I use my hands, use my tactile

senses to remember. To try to get the shape right.

I usually get the order wrong.

A body is like o u t e r s p a c e .

I want to tell you about the galaxies in my head

but they turn into pin pricks of light.

They spin around and I can’t keep them straight;

I’m so tired of chasing them.

Tonight, I hope for an empty sky.