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It's gotten to

eight hundred unopened emails

and two people to call

about not being able to

talk on the phone.

Today I’ll learn

the marks on my mirror.

In the sunlight

my skin becomes

a suede sofa.

I’ll lie in the gap

between the wardrobe

and the floor where

my face levels out

to a blunted pencil point.

Down here

time rolls backwards

on the back of dust balls.

All my hair from three years

scrunched together,

trying to grow me again.

If I began to smell

would anyone think

to check here?

Any words I say now

would sag like plastic bags

full of bricks and paint

on the pavement

and no one would touch them

because they aren’t

interesting enough

to go through.

Suede Hands

Poem: Ellie Riddy

Image: Plum Cloutman


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