Kimball Anderson
sight unseen
stale air
computer fan spinning
I almost perceive myself
as if I were something else
my voice is still that same
high voice that imprinted on me
as a child
as I read my own writing
I read my words excited
like everything is new to me
it’s all a mask
what am I
what’s the point
I find a stretch mark
that I don’t remember
I trace it
a soft indent
over familiar shapes
if I grow and age
if my body changes
and no one is around to see it
do I have a form?
it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter
I’m nothing
what should I be
I see
some faint idealized self
some lost fantasy
I’m always holding onto
a memory
an idea that used to hold meaning
when will I arrive
when will I finally just be
do I have to wait for the look in your eyes
do I need your permission
tell me
do you see me
can you feel my body
in this text
the warmth of me
am I right
am I good yet
themself
maybe when I move my body next
it’ll be changed
I’ll leave behind what I was
a husk on the bed
I keep thinking about myself
when I was a teen
a sweet kid, trying so hard
so delicate
life is a series of losses of self
only mourned when
you can’t accept the present
so I need to accept it then
please
please
storm winds shake the house
a familiar feeling of unease
the floor shouldn’t move
the bed shouldn’t move
like it’s proving the lie of
being in a place at all
being in a body
I imagine walking out into it
to embrace the rain
hitting hard against me, sideways
choosing to be out in the world
finding peace in recklessness
but I don’t
I stay still
I just lie still
I can’t keep making the same mistakes
Kimball Anderson makes comics for people who fell off of the conveyor belt of life. Since they were young they’ve been disabled by chronic illness, and much of their work explores the ignored, quiet spaces along the periphery that people fall into. Their work has appeared in journals and anthologies like Anomaly, Ink Brick, and How to Wait. You can find more of their comics online (outside-life.com).