I’ve always felt like a rodent twistedly attracted to cold-blooded animals. My warm short fur and the slippery snakeskin, reflecting one another…
I wear snakeskin print to remind myself that I’ve always enjoyed crawling in the dust, that there’s nothing more honest than giving up your legs and pressing your chest against the hot and dry desert land. And then I start moving, slowly through the maddening summer, remembering a certain stranger driven to kill by this very powerful sun…
I’ve lost so many skins already and so many battles, but I remember all the shapes my body ever took.
I wish I lived in Algiers and still kept a milky white skin.
I wish I stayed in Oran during the plague and never had to see someone die.
I wish the old man in my dream last night hadn’t been naked and that time didn’t press me against the walls
with its rigid large body.
There’s always been something disturbing about Lolita. I feel like others are overrating her and I can’t help underrating her.
But oh, I’d like to hold her knees in my arms , my yellow-lashed boy.