His laugh sizzles like something crackling in the pit of a dark pan — a reminder that cooks my ears red: this is the voice that gave birth to me. He drew the outline and I filled myself to the shape, filled it to the brim. He rains words and I race to catch them. If he is the leak then I am the pail where it will come to rest, if he is the siren then I am the sound. I am his loophole and he walks straight through me. I am his cadaver left out in the sun until he mixes the colour into my cheeks (pomegranate-stained painted doll). He rubs the life into me and I am his. And he laughs, so I always will be.
