icons are burning

Now that my thoughts are flecked with grey
Now that they are shaved down
      to a thin minimum
Now that everyone is inserting
      their own sharp tongues
      into me,
Now that hens and wrens are preening and perching,
      waiting their turn to scratch and peck me
      for a ration of feed
Now that my skin is being pulled and torn
      into drifting shards and feathers
Now that I know how it feels to be eaten
Now that I can no longer eat
Now that all chairs are uncomfortable
      and all carpets abrade my
      knees

Now that my ice has been broken
Now that I am blanked, unshaped
Now that my icons are burning
      in the chemical fire of my breath
Now that my hands are cut off at the wrists
      but not for the blood of a nation
Now that my eyes have fallen

Now that the laughs of old women
      can no longer touch me
Now that my skintight jeans
      no longer fit me
Now that my brightness
      has moved to the
      outside

Now that my thoughts are an exploding flight
      trying to die in the freezing night

Now that my thoughts are flecked with grey
Now I walk away
      walk away
      walk away

      walk away

(First published in Numbat)

What do you think?