Barefoot as a bat

with no attempt at silk.

Every time someone asks, and what is it you do here? Any answer atrophies in my throat. For the last year I’ve been confessing to friends that I’m afraid of disappearing.

It’s not just that white is the colour of clouds. When I was small I would reflect on how white bodies betray veins and bruises and bites and burn and the flush of shame. It is – they a…