When I was a child and was spending day after day with my grandmother
In her 4th floor apartment
Behind the white, uncomfortable Couch and the spongey (also white) armchair
I'd tangle myself into the transparent curtains
She so carefully cleaned
Most times, I’d bring a book back there
Yet the thrill of being hidden would Rarely give me much rest
For I whole-heartedly believed
No one could see me through the veil of sheer fabric and furniture
If it had been possible, I would have peeled off my skin,
Rearranged it into a grotesque lump of movement
To march into the mustard coloured kitchen
Pass through the wooden cabinets and the rusty pipes
Boil itself from the very inside of the stove
Dip its finger into the coffee jar
Dismantle its tongue with a mixer
Repair it with a spoonful of
And ask my grandmother the question I wanted her to ask herself
“Is someone from the household missing?”
My uncle has inherited the apartment and taken down the curtains
The armchair is decaying, the couch no longer white
I rarely have time to read anymore
Lately I only hide between unchanged bedsheets with floral patterns
In the nights where the air is thick and sticks to your thighs
Underneath questions and doubts
Still
I am waiting for someone to find me
