deja vu

the mist lingers like a cloying imitation

of life between the two limbos i've created

real or not real

home or sea

it disorients me, like colours splaying beneath my fingers, leaking from my nails like a grotesque show-and-tell show 
not the dry mud or the cracking grime; no; the muscle
not blood, not fat, not water; nerves

nerve and muscle, intertwined, interlapped
fluttering inside, begging to rip itself out, crashing at the shell i'm encased in like seafoam lapping against crashing cliffs

it wants out
it wants its own body

it's something i've experienced before

when i didn't own hands, either