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body is markmaking

all i can think about is my capacity to adapt

tracking the different ways me, my body

torn apart, 


put back together,

exists in different forms of a home—a space that denotes security, comfort, protection.


when does that protection become conditional? 

when familiarity evolves into something different, how do i learn to build safety in hostile spaces, to cope, to survive?


a nest is built and accumulated, 

sticks expanding and taking on new paths, encapsulating like blood vessels branching out and enveloping, consuming, a membrane—the barrier that distinguishes one space from another. 

A nest is a home, 

a nest is messy and full of shards and i am not a bird


i want to be held by a home and to be warm and protected from wind coldness and wetness, and my body it tumbles and collides. 


my shape my flesh on the spider webbed corners and weather planks of wood where once were embedded rust and nails, splinters, shards of the tree, my body, colliding, providing the mechanics of implication, a dark, musty, basement, that has transformed into the shape of me.

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