stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 21580
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2021-04-12 08:01:55
    [post_date_gmt] => 2021-04-12 08:01:55
    [post_content] => https://youtu.be/ZKTbJj3EO3g

Blister on my finger grows, the chasm
between bone and the outer ring
of skin, the skin filling with
glassy liquid, the inside
of the plaster like an open
egg and I am queasy
at the sight of my weeping
fingernails, the eager yellow
jelly, all the yolks I haven’t
eaten, the whites of someone
else’s eyes in the mirror,
the hours I spent revising,
the magic of a callus, how
proud I felt when people
stroked it. There is an echo
of me in the Sellotape
stuck to my walls where
I would hang up the
minutes like little
murderers, where I
would watch the
post-it notes grow
like sores, the formulas
tremulous as I stared.
I swear that they
would bleed in
the night. I
would bleed
in the night
and someone
would comment
on my scooped
out sockets
and say I was as
pale as anything.
Iron deficiency.
Haunting. A
smattering
of ectoplasm,
the poor
lighting,
the shadow
of my
former
self.
    [post_title] => Cytoplasm
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => cytoplasm
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2021-04-27 12:28:27
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2021-04-27 12:28:27
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => https://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=21580
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2021
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Human Cell Atlas challenge on Young Poets Network in 2021.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Human Cell Atlas challenge
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 18016
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Nadia Lines
            [slug] => nadia-lines
            [content] => Nadia is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2019. She is the first-prize winner in the 11-15 age category in the Turn Up the Volume challenge on Young Poets Network, and the first-prize winner in the 2019 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard. She is also the second-prize winner in August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry; the third-prize winner in the meme challenge, written and judged by poet Rishi Dastidar; and commended in the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; in August Challenge #1: Re-mixing History, Fiction and the Unexpected; in the Human Cell Atlas challenge; and in the Keats challenge, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 18016
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Nadia Lines
    [slug] => nadia-lines
    [content] => Nadia is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2019. She is the first-prize winner in the 11-15 age category in the Turn Up the Volume challenge on Young Poets Network, and the first-prize winner in the 2019 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard. She is also the second-prize winner in August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry; the third-prize winner in the meme challenge, written and judged by poet Rishi Dastidar; and commended in the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; in August Challenge #1: Re-mixing History, Fiction and the Unexpected; in the Human Cell Atlas challenge; and in the Keats challenge, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
)

Cytoplasm

Nadia Lines

Blister on my finger grows, the chasm
between bone and the outer ring
of skin, the skin filling with
glassy liquid, the inside
of the plaster like an open
egg and I am queasy
at the sight of my weeping
fingernails, the eager yellow
jelly, all the yolks I haven’t
eaten, the whites of someone
else’s eyes in the mirror,
the hours I spent revising,
the magic of a callus, how
proud I felt when people
stroked it. There is an echo
of me in the Sellotape
stuck to my walls where
I would hang up the
minutes like little
murderers, where I
would watch the
post-it notes grow
like sores, the formulas
tremulous as I stared.
I swear that they
would bleed in
the night. I
would bleed
in the night
and someone
would comment
on my scooped
out sockets
and say I was as
pale as anything.
Iron deficiency.
Haunting. A
smattering
of ectoplasm,
the poor
lighting,
the shadow
of my
former
self.