Never a crossed word

I slept for three and a half hours at the back of my mind, thereby leaving my cerebral cortex free to perform acts of incredible daring as it delved into the withered recesses of my memory, attention, perceptual awareness, thinking, language and consciousness. “Did you find anything?” I whispered, hoarsely. But there was no answer. There never is. This line is out of order. Number changed.

It was an exhausting night. I have never woken feeling so drained.

I thought somebody had been chiselling letters into my bones, carving me with their words, shaping my frame into what they wanted me to be rather than what I always imagined I was. As I pressed my hands across my chest, watching the interesting pattern of finger indentations emerge, I realised that I felt out of place within my own ribcage. It had been stolen overnight and replaced with sticks of warped bamboo. Fresh from the Orient, batched together with lengths of silver wire.

I don’t know my own body. Nothing chiselled. No blood and no bloody rifts. Just four letters tattooed into my forehead. First letter M. Common word. Double meaning. Ownership.