My hair is waiting for me to photograph it, to post it online, to sell it, to plait, cut and mail it. Then I will disperse parts of me across the globe; one day I might brush up against these threads of my life. Perhaps I'll lean back in a restaurant chair and mingle a little with my old self.

You can't sell body parts on Ebay; that's where my clothes star in their own show, listed in order of beauty. I am changing, disppearing the old me along with its skins and each one I shed is more painful to lift; now I've reached a layer of core that screams in agony when I try to insert a fingernail. I need to peel away the pain, cut through to the heart before I'm free of this old woman.

Every day a shade more is slaked off but there is nowhere to sell it; I must weave it into something unrecognisable - it should be a work of art. I need a title, something that will move the witness to see the story of my life; it must not be camouflaged - it has to be recognisable. The conundrum is also art. I will be.

A woman in Wales has bought a dress and thanks me for perfect description and packaging; PayPal announces fresh payments every day; I am losing weight, slimming sleek and pale - even my freckles are a memory. Who shall I be?

Today I unfolded a sheet of fine fabric and cut a hole dead centre. My head pushed through, new-born into the speckled eggshell blue. I twirled in a flight of silk and flew around the room. The beating in my heart thrums in a bright rhythm like the tap tap tap of a woodpecker at the start of a new day.

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Author guidance for This poem

Moments of change are almost fairy-tales; we probably don't go ahead with the ideas and new plans - it's fantasy, But, readable - so post yours here, please.

updated Oct 21 '09 by ireneintheworld