I live in a suitcase, 
My head rests on a pile of scrunched up multi colored socks, 
Bedsheets made of folded blue washed out pair of ripped jeans, 
Covers composed of warm winter turtlenecks and marine blue wool jumpers, 

Constantly on the move, 
Always running, never stopping 
Packing unceasingly from city to city, connecting continents to one another, oceans to rivers,
Visiting early empty cold tube stations to silent taxis, lining up as sleepy voyageurs enter. 

My suitcase house has its own legs, its own will and own temper, 
it walks and scampers away, dashing from place to place - four plastic black wheels brushing
against paved stones, gliding across airport corridors, endless train stations or tunnels going
under the brisk Channel. 

From my own end, I fold and fold, 
Taking out creases by the touch of the hand, ironing through the use of my finger tips


by Raphaelle Camarcat

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