Do ravens metamorphosize? Stepping into and out of cocoons, holding closely onto parts of themselves, do they trace shapes behind the bulky tufts of their feathers into patterns memorised by the claw, slurred by the body?
That's where metamorphosis begins, and, in a way, where it ends.
There's people here today, though we're missing a few. They have sieved themselves into fine-grained pieces of their renderings; with swollen stomachs and sullen torsos they sit here.
The frizz of their hair in front of my blinking eyes makes me feel like Janus; two heads suffocating a coin.
It reminds me of the hair scattered around my room that I pretend not to notice when my arms are numb with sloth-like energy. It's just too much to bend these skeletal legs, to put folds in the tissues of this skin. There's always been a dissevering of sorts, between me and this body. I've never known who she is; but for a while now it seems all she does is sleep. Then again, that's probably my fault; the one I know, that is;
I think.
The strands of hair on the floor in front of me now aren't mine. And what makes them not mine is the fact that they are not in my room. They never seemed to shed anywhere else; or atleast that's the only place I ever saw them, and ignored them.
These memories are something I swallow every night, when there is an overwhelming crowd of four people around me. The dinner plate skids off the table and breaks. But somehow, when I touch the table again, it's sitting right there, mocking me. It watches me closely, like a raven watching its fabricated cocoon.
It asks questions sometimes, not expecting an answer; as I sit there, framed in alabaster.
Can I choose to forget memories, rather than misremember? It's been some time since I've questioned it back, or rather questioned her, the one with the skin that I'm so unfamiliar with.
“Step onto misunderstandings”, she says,“and feel the quicksand knit around the needles of your toes.”
Of course I don't know what she means, like I don't know her; but hopefully she knows me, so I can trace her words back to our blood; the only thing tying us together, like a kite string, as we sit in the middle of a crowd of four people,
Or maybe eight.